On the Road to Providence
On the way back to town, the three of us took turns playing devil’s advocate. The house would need an extra bathroom upstairs, a coat of white paint in the living room.
The empty hen house was too beautiful for chickens, looked more like a writing retreat, the white room I’d always wanted. Eventually, we’d want to add more space to the back of the house and expand with some kind of garden room. I’d crave window boxes of cascading lobelia.
A spiritual experience. The house couldn’t be described in any way that could do it justice. An air of “Just Right” hung about the place. The perfect retreat, and we’d have so much fun researching its 80-year history in the courthouse records.
Back at Applebee’s, we flirted giddily with the young waiters and shouted to one another above the happy-hour crowd. Over artichoke dip, Bobbi explained the various options for offering a contract, but I was too exhausted to think clearly, and my legs still screamed. I must have pulled tendons or torn knee cartilage.
In my state of physical and emotional fatigue, I couldn’t grasp the subtleties of offer and counter-offer. I’d want to talk to Frank first, anyway.
Best not to make important decisions with a non-functioning brain. Better to “consult the pillow” first.
We three agreed: Synchronicity was at work, and forces beyond our understanding were already at work to provide us with the right home. If this were really the house for us, it would still be available when we were ready to make an offer early the next morning.
Besides, the house sat on Providence Road. Wasn’t that a sign?