“This is beautiful,” I breathed.
“It’s been in my family for six generations,” he said, taking my bag for me.
“You didn’t want to live in it?” I asked, walking with him to the steps.
“I can’t afford to live in it,” he said.
He didn’t seem embarrassed by the question, but I kicked myself for asking it anyway.
It was like I’d forgotten that not everyone can just casually live in mansions. It was a disconnected Let Them Eat Cake moment, and it was the first time since I called him that I thought maybe I’d made a mistake coming here. I was so different from him that I didn’t even know how to not carelessly insult him. I was afraid I was going to accidentally do it again.
I still was internally beating myself up for this when he let us into the house.
“This is it,” he said, closing the door behind us.
I peered around the entry. It was beautiful. I sort of knew it would be, just based on the outside.
There was a small check-in counter just inside the foyer and an impressive dark walnut staircase behind it with a switchback leading to the second floor. The banister was like a functional piece of art. Hand-carved floral appliqués twisted along the railing. A beautiful period piece, probably original to the historic house. Stunning.
The formal dining room on the left featured a long wooden table that would seat twelve. A living room was on the right with a fireplace framed by green mosaic tile. Colorful glass Tiffany lamps, rich red curtains, antique Victorian furniture. The house was exquisite.
I beamed down at my feet. “Original hardwood floors?”
“In a maple wood herringbone mosaic,” he said, proudly. “My great-great-great-grandfather did these. See how he inlaid oak for contrast in the switchbacks? Finished it with a colorless filler, white shellac, and a light-colored wax to preserve the natural color of the wood grain.” He smiled. “He knew what he was doing.”
And Daniel knew what he was talking about…
“Did he build this place?” I asked.
“He did.” He nodded. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest.”
He went into what sounded like a well-rehearsed tour as he walked me through the rooms. He pointed out Baroque antique monumental Italian wood tole wall sconces, a German wall clock, a nineteenth-century Victorian hair wreath.
It was like the place was frozen in time, trapped in the 1800s. I was totally in love with it. I adored antiques. I always wanted to buy some, but Neil complained they didn’t match the style of the house.
The Grant House had four bedrooms and bathrooms, and a view of the river out back, though it was almost too dark to see it. There was a four-season porch with wicker chairs and another hearth. The landing on the switchback to the second floor had a huge stained-glass window of a blue underwater river scene with swimming fish and diving loons. We viewed the bedrooms upstairs. Each one had a beautiful fireplace. In the fourth bedroom, he set my bag down. “This is your room for the night. It’s the best one in the house.”
I looked around, smiling. It had damask wallpaper, a four-poster bed, and a crackling fire. This was a huge upgrade from Daniel’s loft.
I remembered when I walked into his garage that first night. It had smelled like cedar. Like the lumber section of a hardware store. The jagged teeth of a power saw had glinted on a table in the middle of the room and various furniture projects had been cluttered around the concrete floor and walls. There was a weight bench that he obviously used and a row of muddy men’s work boots carefully lined up by the side door. To the right was a small kitchenette where he’d made me that grilled cheese.
To the left a metal spiral staircase had led up to an enclosed loft with a tiny bathroom, a queen-size bed, and a large window that overlooked the garage. It had probably been an office once, but Daniel had converted it into a small bedroom.
To his credit, the room had been spotless. The bed was made, and there weren’t clothes thrown around. He hadn’t known he was bringing a woman home, so it spoke to his cleanliness. And so did this…The room he’d put me up in was immaculate—and there were fresh flowers on the nightstand.
I’d Googled reviews of the property on TripAdvisor before I headed down.
Five stars. A solid five stars.
Every single review gushed about Daniel and how he’d gone out of his way to make them feel at home. Tales of practical heroism abounded. He’d gotten the pharmacist to open the store at two in the morning to buy Tylenol for a sick kid, and he’d changed a tire when a guest had a flat. He did things like leave a box of graham crackers with chocolate and marshmallows by the fireplace.