Clean Sweep by Jane Heller

Author:Jane Heller
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781682303535
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2016-03-18T04:00:00+00:00

102 Harborview Terrace was an antique saltbox with a “winter view” of the Long Island Sound—i.e., you could see the water from the house only when there were no leaves on the trees. Often referred to as the John Hoggins Homestead, it was built in 1767 by the first minister of the Christ Episcopal Church in Layton, who had inherited the land from his father, a staunch Loyalist and supporter of the King of England during the Revolution. Despite the fact that the British burned much of Layton in 1779, the house was spared the Redcoats’ torch and remained in the Hoggins family until 1850. Subsequent owners took great care to preserve its period flavor, which brings us to the Silverbergs, who, I was dismayed to find, had given the John Hoggins Homestead a spin all their own. Oh, the wideboard flooring, chair rail moldings, exposed beams, and beehive ovens were still in place. But the Silverbergs’ idea of preserving authentic period detail was to throw every cutesy thing they’d ever seen in Country Living magazine at the place—quilts, decoys, straw baskets, corner cabinets, rocking chairs, American flags, you get the picture. But here’s where the decor got really nauseating. The Silverbergs’ idea of updating the house was to install the trendiest amenities of the nineties right alongside the authentic period detail: track lights sitting atop rough-hewn beams, a Jenn-aire oven inside the beehive oven, wall-to-wall carpeting over the wideboard floors, and so on. But hey, it was the Silverbergs’ house. Taste or no taste, they had a right to trash the place if they wanted to.

“Please come in,” said Mrs. Silverberg as she opened the (what else) paneled antique front door with American flag hanging overhead.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m Alison Koff. Nice to meet you.” I braced myself for a reaction, expecting her to recoil at the sound of my name, but she didn’t. Maybe she was new in town.

“Let me get the children,” she said quickly, appearing somewhat frazzled. She was thirty-something, with bushy, shoulder-length auburn hair held in place by a pink velvet headband. She wore wire-rimmed glasses of the type that Gloria Steinem used to wear before she realized it was okay for America’s most famous feminist to wear contact lenses. Her outfit was pure Laura Ashley—from her ruffled pink-and-green-flowered blouse to the matching pink-and-green, mid-calf-length flowered skirt, under which she wore brown leather riding boots. Oh, and let’s not forget the pearls—a thin strand around her neck, tiny studs in her earlobes. It struck me that Mrs. Silverberg wanted very much to appear authentic, but authentic what I couldn’t figure out.

“What are the children’s names?” I asked before she could hurry out of the foyer, which was so crammed with wood-painted ducks I could practically hear their quacking.

“Tiffany and Amber,” she said proudly. “Our two little angels.”

Tiffany and Amber Silverberg. And I thought putting wall-to-wall carpeting over wideboard floors was a mixed metaphor.

Mrs. Silverberg ushered me into the living room and suggested I wait there

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