The floor and walls of the verandah, protected from sun and rain for ages, gave a hint of the house's former glory. Jane could have closed her eyes and imagined the seven-foot expanse from the house to the elaborate but broken rails, with floors painted a shiny dark green, pristine white wicker furniture with bright cushions scattered about, and little tables where you could genteelly knock back a couple of frosty glasses of mimosas on a lazy Sunday morning in summer.

If she had the kind of money Bitsy was reputed to have, Jane would happily restore it herself and live there just for the verandah. Think what grand parties you could have on late spring evenings if you planted masses of lilac bushes at the foundation.

Shelley crept back out the front door. "Why are you dawdling out here, Jane?"

"I'm just picturing how it could look. Isn't that what we're supposed to be doing?"

"I guess so," Shelley admitted. "So what do you see doing with this mess?"

Jane described what she had in mind. "In nice weather this could be a divine spot to sit and relax."

"I don't think corporate bigwigs ever relax," Shelley said. "Relaxed bigwigs is an oxymoron."

"They couldn't resist it here," Jane said with assurance.

"We need to start measuring," Shelley said in her bossiest mode. She was fiddling with a notebook with a pencil tied to it with a gold string, and a hefty metal tape measure.

They went through what once had been a spectacular front door, curved at the top, with remnants of deep-purple-blue stained glass arched above it. Carvings of grapes climbing trellises decorated the door itself. But it was in sad shape. Someone had apparently stabbed it at some point. There were deep gashes in the wood, revealing what Jane thought was mahogany.

"We're going to have to learn all about different woods," she said. "Where will we learn that?"