The new granite entrance signs have been installed since my last visit—SHADOW RIDGE ESTATES in gold script on a dark background. Embarrassingly ostentatious, I think, as I turn onto Shadow Ridge Lane. The first house I see—the first house anyone would see as they drive into this developing neighborhood—is the old Hockley place. Buddy Hockley refuses to sell to the developers, who would like to squeeze two more houses into the wide lot where the big white, red-roofed house stands. The house is ancient, and although it couldn’t be more different from the style of house I love to design, I think it’s beautiful. There’s something appealing about the broad porch with the rockers that look like they’ve been there forever. It’s an inviting “come over and have a glass of sweet tea” sort of porch. But the Hockley house is an abomination to everyone else who is having a house built on Shadow Ridge Lane.
I’ve heard that Buddy Hockley is terminally ill now—I don’t know with what—so I’m sure the developers are ready to pounce on their heirs, whoever they might be.
I’m so used to seeing only a dusty old dark blue pickup in the Hockley driveway that I’m actually startled to see a white sedan behind it. An aide? A visitor? A grown child?
“Does Buddy Hockley have children, Daddy?” I ask as we pass the driveway.
My father seems to be studying the white car as well. “Buddy had a daughter but she passed a few years back,” he says. “Wife passed too. Only family left besides his mother is a sister, Eleanor—Ellie—but she lives in California. Left when she was young and never came back.”
“Will Daddy be at the new house?” Rainie interrupts our conversation from the back seat. My heart cramps at her question and I can’t answer right away.
My father reaches over to touch my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze. Be strong, he’s saying.
“No, honey,” I say. “Daddy won’t be there. Remember I told you that he’s in heaven?” It breaks my heart that she still doesn’t get it that Jackson is gone for good. It breaks my heart that she’ll never get to know him, and that he’ll never have the chance to see his little girl grow up.
“Oh right. I forgetted,” Rainie says, without the slightest hint of pain in her voice. “I wish he’d come back though.”
“So do we, honey,” I say. “And I know he misses you as much as you miss him.”
Both sides of Shadow Ridge Lane are lined with white construction vans, and the sound of hammering and drilling and sawing cuts right through the car windows. I am sick to death of the sounds of construction. The houses are in various stages of completion, and—not counting the Hockley house—there will be nineteen altogether, eight on the north side, ten on the south, and one at the very end of the street. That is ours. Or, I guess, mine. It’s an undeniably stunning house—a sleek wood-and-glass Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired contemporary, finished and waiting for the furniture to arrive on Saturday. I wish the furniture would arrive next year, instead, when we’d at least have some neighbors to get to know. I have such a love/hate feeling about our “dream house” now.
“I think you should take out some more trees.” Daddy eyes the land around the house as I pull into the newly paved driveway.
I have to admit that the trees look oppressive. Before, I thought they would embrace the house. Now it looks as though the house has slipped inside a deep green cave.
No one should have put a house there. Isn’t that what the woman said? Weird Ann Smith?
“Maybe,” I answer my father.
Outside the car, I reach for Rainie’s hand, but she runs ahead, hopping along the new sidewalk that runs from the driveway to the front door. Daddy and I catch up with her there, and I tap in the code to unlock the door.
Although it’s only late afternoon and the walls are more glass than wood, the house is indeed a bit dim inside. I flick on the lights and take a look around. The first story is completely open, the ceiling high. I can see all the way to the kitchen from where I stand. Unobtrusive shelves divide the dining area from the living room, the kitchen from the great room. The walls have now been painted a pale taupe. The new hardwood floors, a rich toffee color, are incredibly beautiful and warm the open space exactly as I’d hoped they would. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been in the house and it looks like it’s ready and waiting to be filled with furnishings and family. The architect in me is proud and amazed at what Jackson and I created. The widow in me can barely move.