That annoyed me enough to add another thousand.
“Forty-one.”
He looked at the parcel sheet.
Historic restrictions.
Ravine.
Odd shape.
Then shrugged.
“Forty-two,” he said.
I should have stopped.
Instead I heard Granddad’s voice.
History is what survives.
“Forty-two thousand five hundred.”
The developer smiled, almost kindly.
Dropped his paddle.
“Sold.”
My stomach fell through the floor.
The auctioneer congratulated me.
I had just spent most of my inheritance on a building without a functioning roof.
The first person I called was my sister Caroline.
“You bought what?”
“A railway depot.”
Silence.
“Like a train station?”
“Yes.”
“Does it have trains?”
“No.”
“Does it have plumbing?”
“Possibly.”
“That means no.”
“Probably no.”
“Roof?”
“Most of one.”
Another silence.
“Granddad would love this.”
That was how I knew she understood.
My first three weekends were exactly what I expected.
Brush clearing.
Garbage removal.
Temporary roofing.
Removing sections of rotten wood.
Documenting architectural details so the county historic office would not object when I repaired them.
I found old ticket stubs beneath floorboards.
A brass baggage tag.
A 1952 timetable.
A section of cast-iron stove buried beneath the collapsed ceiling.
I also found seven raccoons.
The raccoons believed they owned the building.
For a while, I considered their legal position stronger than mine.
On my third Saturday, I was outside near the former platform trying to pull a rusted steel rail segment out of the earth when a pearl-white Range Rover entered the depot lot.
It was so clean it looked absurd against the mud.
The woman who stepped out did not.
She looked completely at home being absurdly clean.
Mid-forties.
Perfect blonde bob.
Designer sunglasses.
Cream cashmere sweater draped over her shoulders despite the cold.
Riding boots that had never met a horse.
She remained on the gravel.
“Excuse me.”
I stopped pulling the rail.
“Morning.”
“Who is your site supervisor?”
“I am.”
She looked at my flannel shirt.
My gloves.
Mud on my jeans.
“No. I mean the person in charge.”
“That would still be me.”
A pause.
“You own this?”
“As of three weeks ago.”
She lowered her sunglasses.
“I see.”
She said it as though she had just discovered the county auction allowed livestock to bid.
“My name is Brandy Parker. I’m president of the Whispering Pines Homeowners Association.”
I knew Whispering Pines.
Everybody did.
The development sat approximately a mile uphill from my depot, hidden among pines and rock outcroppings.
Forty custom homes.
Most valued between three and seven million dollars.
Heated driveways.
Private security.
A clubhouse with indoor pool.
A dramatic timber bridge at the main entrance spanning Copper Gorge.
Local contractors joked that the residents of Whispering Pines would pay ten thousand dollars to avoid seeing something that cost ten dollars.
Brandy opened a leather folder.
“I’m afraid you’re in substantial violation of our valley aesthetic protocols.”
“Our?”