The good citizens of Portsea stole their bills like doctors, lawyers, or football stars, so they didn't need to grab an old jalopy. Portsea was the area of high fences and houses with tennis courts and swimming pools designed by famous architects.
Tom strapped his tool belt around his hips, slung a pillowcase full of rags over his shoulder, and walked through the entrance of one of those houses, with the name Belvedere etched into a wooden column. From the entrance, he saw a white wall and a gray roof, a typical combination for summer houses in the area. The odd thing was that, unlike other properties in Portsea, Belvedere didn't have perfectly trimmed grass. In fact, it wasn't trimmed at all.
Through the undergrowth, he saw a house that looked like it had been built some fifty years earlier... by five architects with conflicting visions. It had at least three floors, but each one was built in a different way. Most of the shutters were closed, and judging by the rust on the hinges, many had surely not been opened in centuries. The rest were hidden behind bushes that hadn't been cut for years.
If the Sorrento City Council knew, a representative would show up in five minutes demanding the immediate renovation of the house so that the area wouldn't lose value. The houses in Portsea were empty most of the year, and all that was needed was the occasional grass cut. Being the handyman he was, Tom only did jobs of that nature. But this place... it could use a good coat of paint. And the garden... he wouldn't know where to start. It was a gardener's dream. And he'd tell "Lady Bryce" all that as soon as he found her. Tom smiled. Lady Bryce. That was what the Barclay sisters, the two oldest women in Portsea, called her because she hadn't yet deigned to frequent their establishment. He didn't know her either, although he'd seen her driving around Sorrento in a black Jeep, wearing huge sunglasses and a ponytail, gripping the steering wheel for dear life. And when he had to decide between working for that woman or going fishing, he was about to say no. But in the end, he couldn't do it. He could imagine his cousin Alex laughing at him for even considering abandoning a damsel in distress. Alex seemed to think he had some kind of knight-errant complex.
Looking down at the ground to avoid tripping over roots and ducking his head to avoid hitting branches, Tom stopped when he saw a fantastically carved wooden double door. One door was open, but guarded by a good-sized brown dog with a serious expression. He wore a tag on his collar that read Smiley. -Smiley, huh? The dog raised his head and blinked. -Is the lady of the house here? A loud bang, followed by a series of swear words very unsuitable for a "lady," told her that the lady of the house was indeed there.
"Hello!" he called. But there was no answer. Since he couldn't find the doorbell, Tom stepped past the gloomy dog and entered the house. The first thing he saw was a dark stain on the wall, evidence that a painting had once stood there; a wooden bench covered in mold and unopened mail; and a half-dried fern in a pot.
Tom heard another swear word, this one softer than the last, and followed the sound of the female voice into a large room with wooden floors that needed immediate refinishing, but with plenty of light because there were no curtains on the windows. From there, there was a fabulous panoramic view of Port Phillip Bay.
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