“One bottle to christen the house and the other one to drink. What’s the matter, anyway? You like champagne, right?”

“Sure,” Trent answered as he followed Garrett. “That’s not what’s bothering me.”

“So . . . ?” Garrett asked.

“The champagne is worth more than the damned house is. Not to mention that the entire place might collapse!”

Garrett snorted out a short laugh. “Truth is you could be right on both counts.”

Pausing in his walk, Garrett stopped to admire his recent purchase. For once, Trent knew when to be quiet and let his friend enjoy the moment.

Built in 1835, the large home had had many owners on its long and convoluted journey to Garrett Richmond. He’d closed the transaction only yesterday, but while growing up in New Bedford he had always loved this property. So much so, that he’d often pass by to both admire it and to mourn its condition. Something about this old house by the sea had fostered an irresistible attraction within him. And it was that very enticement, he had long known, that had led him to a career in architecture.

The two-story directly faced the Atlantic. Garrett had always thought that the original builder put it a bit too close to the ocean, but so be it. It rested on an elevated, scrubby clump of land that ended where the rocky shore began sloping down toward the ocean. As a result, the continual sea air and wave spray were constant enemies, and even once Seaside was restored, Garrett knew that he would have his hands full keeping it that way.

Despite its distressed condition, one could tell that it had once been an impressive and stately residence. Four high, Doric columns graced the front and supported the overhanging roof, which extended forward from the second floor. A long, open veranda shaded by the roof stretched all the way across the face and extended down along each side of the house. The side verandas also had columns that supported two more side balconies with railings, and doors that allowed entry into each of the first-floor side rooms. Another large, elegantly curved balcony extended from the front of the house at the second floor, providing an open sitting area off the master bedroom.

An ornate railing ran along the entire roof edge. The roof itself was flat, with a raised area toward the front that supported an extremely weathered widow’s walk, its roof and railings warped with the passage of time. Twin chimneys in bad disrepair exited the roof, one at the far left-hand side where the parlor had once presumably been, and the other one on the right, in the dining room. The front of the house had been sided with bricks. The sides were covered with clapboards that had once been painted a bright white but that had long since faded to a dull and tired gray.

Despite all the obvious damage, Garrett smiled. To his way of thinking, every problem was a welcome challenge, its completion bringing him one step closer to his goal. His eyes saw a diamond in the rough that he couldn’t wait to polish. But for Trent, each of those flaws only reaffirmed that Garrett had made the mistake of his life. Like Garrett, Trent was an architect, but he lacked the vision and the wonderful eye for detail that were Garrett’s trademarks.

“Let me guess, professor,” Trent said. “Once upon a time, this shack was an antebellum, Greek Revival style. It’s been a while since school, but I’m correct, right?”

Garrett laughed a little. “Not completely,” he answered. “It’s really Gothic Revival, with some Romantic style embellishments that someone slapped on her, somewhere along the line.