The House of Seven Mabels

everyone else, where Shelley and Jane sat staring at the house. “Look at those gables.“
    “Shelley, I think a gable is the way to refer to the ends of a house. Those are dormers on the third floor.“
    “I’d rather think of them as gables. The House of Seven Mabels,“ she added with a laugh.
    Jane liked the term. “It’s time we go in, whatever you want to call it.“
    Shelley practically streaked from the car to the front door. Jane followed more slowly, looking closely at the house. She had driven by it innumerable times, but had only glanced at it disapprovingly. It was really a community eyesore. She was constantly expecting to come by and see it leveled to the ground.
    But with a practical reason to study it, she found it interesting.
    Everyone called it the old Victorian house, but that was only because of the once fancy trim, Jane decided. Not that Jane knew what made a house Victorian anyway. There were all sorts of elaborate gingerbread siding covering it, but it was only in peeling patches now. Jane could imagine that it had been an eye-stopper when it was new.
    She could picture it with stark white paint, lighting up the whole neighborhood. Of course there probably wasn’t a neighborhood when it was built. It was the sort of house that had probably stood in solitary splendor alone on a good ten acres.
    There was a purely Southern verandah stretched across the front and presumably going around both sides. She hadn’t noticed whether it had continued around the back when they had attempted to park there. The third floor had a sloping roof and a plethora of dormer windows—which Shelley insisted were called gables.
    She approached closer and walked up the four steps to the front of the house. They’d have to replace those steps. She nearly put her foot through one. Maybe narrower steps and a ramp, so it would be accessible to the disabled or wheelchair-bound.
    The floor and walls of the verandah, protected from sun and rain for ages, gave a hint of the house’s former glory. Jane could have closed her eyes and imagined the seven-foot expanse from the house to the elaborate but broken rails, with floors painted a shiny dark green, pristine white wicker furniture with bright cushions scattered about, and little tables where you could genteelly knock back a couple of frosty glasses of mimosas on a lazy Sunday morning in summer.
    If she had the kind of money Bitsy was reputed to have, Jane would happily restore it herself and live there just for the verandah. Think what grand parties you could have on late spring evenings if you planted masses of lilac bushes at the foundation.
    Shelley crept back out the front door. “Why are you dawdling out here, Jane?“
    “I’m just picturing how it could look. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?“
    “I guess so,“ Shelley admitted. “So what do you see doing with this mess?“
    Jane described what she had in mind. “In nice weather this could be a divine spot to sit and relax.“
    “I don’t think corporate bigwigs ever relax,“ Shelley said. “Relaxed bigwigs is an oxymoron.“
    “They couldn’t resist it here,“ Jane said with assurance.
    “We need to start measuring,“ Shelley said in her bossiest mode. She was fiddling with a notebook with a pencil tied to it with a gold string, and a hefty metal tape measure.
    They went through what once had been a spectacular front door, curved at the top, with remnants of deep-purple-blue stained glass arched above it. Carvings of grapes climbing trellises decorated the door itself. But it was in sad shape. Someone had apparently stabbed it at some point. There were deep gashes in the wood, revealing what Jane thought was mahogany.
    “We’re going to have to learn all about different woods,“ she said. “Where will we learn that?“
    “At the library?“ Shelley asked. “There must be tons of books we’ll need to consult before we can talk about furniture without making fools of ourselves.“
    They stepped inside the front door, closing it behind them. Jane closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by memories of some of the old boarding schools in Europe she’d attended as a
    girl when her parents were traveling all over the world. It was the smell that gripped her. Of course it was overlaid by the odor of garbage and mildew, but under that was the familiar scent of very old wood, beeswax polish, lavender water, camphor oil, and ancient leatherbound books similar to those in some