Free The Silver Age by Nicholson Gunn Page B

where Sherwin was
standing.
    “Peter, how are you doing?” the agent said, his tone
affable, as they approached.
    “Sherwin, good to see you. This is Stephan, an old friend
with a good eye.”
    Sherwin’s handshake was firm, his gaze direct but not too
intense as he slid Stephan a business card (minimalist contemporary font,
matted card stock). In Stephan’s limited experience with agents, he’d often
been weirdly impressed by them. Their slickness, their cool and calculating
approach to beautiful objects, intrigued him.
    Sherwin made a few initial remarks about the house as
they went in, then discreetly left them to their own devices – at which point
Pete, who had already been through a couple of times, took over the tour. In
each room, he pointed out details that he treasured – original cast-iron
heating registers, intricate crown mouldings. The house was late Victorian,
with high ceilings and hardwood floors throughout. Its kitchen had been redone
in the 1980s, as was obvious from its beige veneers and wood-strip handles. It
was ugly, Pete noted, but the ugliness was cosmetic. Kitchens could always be
redone, down the road, once there was a little more cash at hand.
    There were three smallish bedrooms upstairs, and a
bathroom with cracked tile floors and blue walls, dominated by a massive old
claw-foot tub. The current owners had already moved out, and the place was
completely empty of furnishings, giving it an abandoned quality that Stephan
rather liked – he regretted not bringing along his camera. Light streamed into
the empty rooms through naked windows, tornados of dust aswirl in the bright
air. The house lacked the modern amenities and sheer square footage of the
suburban redoubts Stephan had known growing up, with their custom kitchens and
vast main-floor rec rooms. But it had character, an advantage that was not
trivial.
    They stepped through a sliding door into a modest strip
of backyard. It was situated on the crest of a low hillside that sloped off to
the west, where the downtown skyline loomed on the horizon. The towers were
close enough to look large and domineering, but the property was far enough
away from them – and from most of the more fashionable parts of town – that it
was still relatively affordable, at least for the time being.
    “So what do you think?” Pete asked. “You like, you like?”
    “Yes, I do,” Stephan said. “I like it a lot. And if you
guys are still thinking of having kids and all that, then you’re going to need
the space, right?”
    “You sure it’s not too... sleepy out here?”
    “Not at all.”
    Pete eyed him. “Is that really what you think?” he asked.
    “It is. In fact, I have to say I’m feeling a little
jealous right now.”
    “Jealous, you say?” Pete grinned. “Well, okay, then.
Jealous works.”
    “So are you two are going to, uh, put in an offer?”
    “We’re thinking yes. But I wanted a second opinion.”
    “Well then, I’d say go for it.”
     
     
    After they’d finished up at the house, and said their
goodbyes to Sherwin, Pete insisted on taking Stephan out to a family restaurant
on nearby Queen Street East for coconut-cream pie. Coming from Pete, this was
about as heartfelt a thanks as you could get, and Stephan was glad he’d skipped
work for his friend.
    They arrived a little after lunch time. Mid-day sunlight
was slanting into the main dining room through floor-to-ceiling front windows,
imparting a warm yellow glow to the scene – well-fed tradesmen in coveralls
silently devouring plates of spaghetti and meatballs, blue-haired grannies
trading stories of their salad days over pots of strong tea, young married
couples, apple-cheeked kids in tow. A duo of twenty-something male waiters, one
white and one Asian, hurried to and from the open grill at the back of the
room, where steaks the size of LP records sizzled under a stern-faced chef’s
watchful eye.
    “So thanks again for your help with that,” Pete said as
they slid into