Free The Art of Arranging Flowers by Lynne Branard Page B

to the plants resting in the tubs in the back of the van. I turn off the engine and take in the view. I recall that the architecture of the Colonial Revival style sought to follow the American colonial architecture of the period around the Revolutionary War. The houses, like Dr. Buckley’s, are usually two stories in height with the ridge pole running parallel to the street, a symmetrical front façade with an accented doorway and evenly spaced windows on either side of it.
    There is an elaborate front door, complete with decorative crown pediments and an overhead fanlight. The window openings, though symmetrically located on either side of the front entrance, are hung in an adjacent pair rather than as single windows.
    It appears as if someone has either painted or power-washed the outside of the place because the white wood glistens in the afternoon winter sun. The shutters, turquoise blue, stand bright and clean, opening to let the light pour through the windows. The yard has been weeded and mowed, and the narrow flower bed that sweeps around the house and along the sides is marked with new red bricks and filled with fresh soil. The front steps gleam and there are two plant stands, empty but already placed by the door.
    Somebody has been getting this house in good condition to sell, and for a moment I wonder if Dr. Buckley hasn’t moved back from the lake to do the work. But I don’t really think that he has. I haven’t seen him in town in months. It’s probably Kathy’s pushing and prodding and the work of Timothy Barr’s painting company and Jerry Dexter’s landscaping crew completing all the labor. More than likely, Wade Buckley just gets the bill.
    The house hasn’t been on the market that long, a few months, but I know there isn’t much real estate action in this small town and I know Kathy wants a commission. This is probably her most lucrative property, and I’m sure she’d love nothing better than to get the new veterinarian’s name on a contract for this house rather than on one of the cheaper places on her list. If she landed this sale, she would likely take the rest of the winter off.
    I dig in my pocket for the house key she gave me and get out of the van. I head to the back and take out the two umbrella trees to put on the porch stands. Once there I realize ferns would have been more traditional, their long leafy stems dropping over the sides, their full pushy bodies filling up the space around the front door, but I still like the schefflera arboricolas and I remain confident with my decision. They’re regal in their guard positions, tall and thin, but still up to the task of greeting and welcoming those who enter. I stand back to admire them.
    Next I open the door and check out the interior. Kathy was right; there is furniture throughout, sparse but well placed. A sofa in the living room; two small tables with lamps; a couple of chairs, a wingback and an overstuffed one, carefully placed, one under the window and another along the wall. There are white sheer curtains and a few paintings, a large oriental rug in the center of the room and a coffee table set with an open book and two small candleholders, tiny silver birds, their faces set toward the light coming through the door.
    There is a dining table and chairs, a china cabinet bearing a few saucers and cups, dinner plates, and a knickknack here and there to give a little color and fill up the shelves. There is the slightest scent of furniture polish, lemon I think, and I assume Kathy has also acquired the services of Linda Brown’s cleaning company because everything appears recently swept, mopped, and wiped down. It is obvious that Kathy has spared no expense with this showing, and like her, I am hopeful she will be rewarded for her careful attention.
    I return to the van to get the other two plants, walk back in, and place the bamboo in the center of the dining table, thinking its bright purple