A House of My Own …Part 1 …A Woman of Means

You alone are enough.
You have nothing to prove to anybody.
― Maya Angelou

Oh, Clare!

“I want the Blair House, Vi.”

I was in my car between house closings and trying to sound reasonably calm on the phone. My lawyer was not cooperating.

“I know you want the manse, Clare, but there’s a long-standing dispute over the estate and the title’s in abeyance.”

“Abeyance—what the hell’s that—one of those fifty dollar words lawyers use?”

Okay, that was a low blow.

Vi switched to her soft voice—the one she uses with me when she’s run out of patience and is trying hard not to show it.

“It just means the title of Blair House is not yet vested in an known titleholder.”

“What the hell’s the matter with this family—why don’t they just sell off the house, take the money and divvy it up?”

“Apparently, they can’t seem to persuade a buyer to come up with their asking price.”

“And what’s that?”

“A million and a half.”

The price was not unreasonable for a Civil War manse on five acres of land, with an impressive wrap-around porch and matching twin turrets.

“Make them an offer—full price.”

There was a long pause—and then, finally, Vi’s brittle reply, “Fine. Conditional on home inspection?”

“No conditions.”

Vi was losing patience fast.

“Clare, please be reasonable. The house is magnificent, but it’s 150 years old—it may have termites, knob and tube wiring, an asbestos-lined boiler—hell, it may even still be lit by gas jets, for all we know.”

“Damn it Vi, just buy it.”

“Oh, I get it—turret’s syndrome. Well, just don’t get distracted by all that charming gingerbread.”

“I’m not buying a witches’ cottage—though it’s surrounded by a forest —and yes Vi, I do know it’s a bit tired.”

Vi softened, “You know, Clare, it’s not just the house that’s tired. Speaking now as your friend, I have to remind you, gorgeous as you are, you’re hitting the big Four Oh this year, and you’re still unmarried.”

“So, shouldn’t I buy the house as an investment—as a hedge against spinsterdom and old age?”

“Funny. You’re hardly the spinster type—besides, redheads don’t even go gray—their glory just dims.”

“Oh don’t give me that pity line, Vi—age cannot wither nor custom stale her infinite variety—Hah! Give me a break.”

I couldn't see Vi on speakerphone but I could imagine her throwing uoo her hands in the air in pure frustration with me.

“I’d like to break your stiff neck, Girl," she said sternly. "Now listen upnt—this is me, in my best barrister voice, saying to you, Clare of Great Beauty, don’t buy this house. You need to get a life.”

“What you mean, sister woman, is I need a man.”

“Okay, same difference. But you don’t need a white elephant, almost as big as the White House.”

I had to laugh at Vi's outlandish comparison.

“Thanks for the advice, Vi, but my decision stands. Me, real estate agent—you, lawyer. Do your duty!”

“Okay, Jane, but I sincerely hope you find a Tarzan to share your house in the trees.”

“Ya, that’d be a consummation devoutly to be wished.”

“Any consummation would help,” Vi yelped.

I cut her off and flipped the cell shut.

Poor, sweet, naïve Vi—thinking all life’s problems could be easily solved by the addition of a man.

To be continued…

© 2026, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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