And do you see the widow’s walk? That’s called Italianate, as you should know.”

“If that’s the case then I’m even more surprised you bought it,” Trent replied, “especially since you’re always lecturing your students about ‘Frankentechture.’ So why did you make an exception?”

Garrett began walking toward the front porch again.

“To be honest, I don’t know,” he replied quietly. “And you’re right—I do hate the mixing of respected architectural types. It’s like wearing sneakers with a tuxedo, but as for this particular house—well, I’m not sure why I like it so much. There’s just always been something about it that . . .”

As Garrett’s words trailed off, he realized that there was no concrete answer to Trent’s question. Many had been the time when he asked himself the same thing. Although he had purchased this foreclosed house on a short sale from the bank, most still thought that he paid too much. But for him, this was not a question of money. Rather it was about restoring what to his discerning eye had once been a magnificent place where people lived and loved during quieter, more genteel times.

Moreover, the chain of title had also intrigued Garrett. Coupled with some research he had done on his own, an interesting early history of the house had emerged. It had been built for a well-respected New Bedford lawyer. Soon after its completion, the lawyer lost his wife to what was then called “consumption.” His despair was so great that he decided to sell the house and leave, never to be heard from again.

The next owners were Adam and Constance Canfield, and it seemed that their circumstances were no less tragic. Adam had been a whaling captain lost at sea. Strangely, his wife, Constance, seemed to have also disappeared around that same time, never to return. As a result, the bank had foreclosed and sold the property at public auction. In those days the house was called “Seaside,” a name that had supposedly been bestowed upon it by the Canfields. Garrett liked the name, and from the moment he signed the papers he had resolved to call it that.

“Seaside . . .” he said quietly to himself as he again began walking toward the house.

“What did you just say?” Trent asked as he followed along. He never could keep up with Garrett’s long legs.

“Seaside,” Garrett repeated. “That’s the name given to it by one of the previous owners. I like it, and I’m going to call it that.”

Quickening his pace, Trent caught up to Garrett again while still juggling the chairs and the small box.

“Seaside, huh?” Trent asked. “Wow . . . how original.”

Garrett laughed again as they neared the porch. “Go ahead,” he replied. “Criticize all you want. But when this place is done, you’re going to be amazed.”

They climbed the rickety steps, walked across the porch, and put down their things. Garrett set up the chairs, and the two old friends sat down beside one another and quietly looked out at the ocean.

“I’ve never really doubted you before, Garrett,” Trent said, after a time. “But now you’ve got me scratching my head. You do realize that this place is so rough you might not finish it until you’re an old man, right?”

Garrett smiled. “Maybe,” he answered. “But there’s so much promise here. Even Tara once needed a complete overhaul, you know.”

Trent leaned back and gingerly put his feet up on the porch rail, as if the entire thing might collapse at any moment.