Restoration

ONE When the old car pulled up, I was waiting by the gate, gazing past a colorful shroud of crape myrtles and wisteria at a plantation house I had long admired. The rent sign hanging from the finials on the tall, iron fence appeared to be hand-done, as the lettering was clumsily formed and running in streaks. you can live here, the sign said, and provided numbers for a local business called High Life Realty. I cracked a smile at the spectacle of the approaching car. Its exhaust pipe was dragging the ground and shooting sparks in a great, feathery arc. After parking against the curb in front, the driver made a furious attempt to open his door. It wouldn't budge, and so he slid across the seat and got out on the passenger's side. He was an odd-looking fellow with a flaming-red complexion, thinning blond hair and, today, a crust of dried shaving cream on the side of his face. Perhaps because of his company's name, he was not at all what I'd expected. In other words, there was nothing of the high life about him. Cat hair clung to his cheap navy coat. His shoes were brown brogans caked with mud. "You Jack?" he said, ambling toward me with a hand to shake. "Yes," I answered. "You Mr. Marion?" "Patrick. Call me Patrick, please." He was the agent representing the rental; I'd phoned him less than an hour before. "It's only eight hundred dollars a month," he said, "but it isn't for the main house, Jack. It's for the bachelor's quarters--the garconniere--attached to the rear of the building." "Does someone live in the main house?" He nodded. "The owner, an elderly man named Lowenstein. I'd offer to introduce you to him but he's not well, I'm afraid. He keeps a maid and a nurse, and if you rent the place you're likely to see more of them than of him. Except for the occasional afternoon when he rolls out for coffee on the back gallery, he tends to remain hidden." "He's in a wheelchair, then?" "Well, part of the time, when the arthritis flares up. He doesn't exactly welcome personal questions, but that's how the nurse described his condition." I followed Patrick to the back of the house and the garconniere. The apartment was small, dark and cramped, and the floors were badly warped from water damage. Ceilings reached upward to a height of twelve feet and each of the three rooms had a fireplace. I checked to make sure the shower worked and the toilet flushed properly, and when I stepped out of the bathroom Patrick was waiting for me with a familiar look on his face. "Jack, have we met before?" "I don't think so." "Then how do I know you? I'm certain I've heard your name before." "You read the paper?" "Always." "I'm Jack Charbonnet," I said, pronouncing it the French way, as we do, Shar-bo-nay. "I write a column . . . well, I did write one. I resigned last week." "And how old are you, Jack? If you don't mind my asking." "Thirty-two." "Thirty-two and you've resigned? How wonderful." "If I look familiar it's probably because the paper ran my mug shot with the column." I imitated my pose in the photo. "Maybe you've seen it." He pulled a hand down his long face and gave me another look. He shook his head finally, and then pointed to the ground at his feet, no doubt intent on getting back to the issue at hand. "If you want privacy and seclusion, Jack, this is the spot." "It does inspire, doesn't it? I'm almost embarrassed to admit this, but a moment ago I had a flash of dej^ vu." This seemed to please him, and he answered with an energetic nod. "You're perfect for the place, I can tell. Except for the modern conveniences like plumbing and air-conditioning, it's jBradley, John Ed is the author of 'Restoration', published 2003 under ISBN 9780385502610 and ISBN 0385502613.