The foyer opened to a large living room on the right, with a fieldstone fireplace that took up most of the center wall and ran as high as the tall ceiling. I felt like I was looking at a room in a museum because of the statuary and the large paintings, most of which I recognized as realist art popular in the second half of the nineteenth century. There were even some woodcuts capturing country scenes. All the oversized furniture, tables, and rugs on the dark hardwood floor looked just delivered.
“It’s beautiful. Magnificent. But does anyone use this room?” I asked.
He laughed. “In the mornings, my mother goes in there with a white cotton cloth and checks the tops of tables and sofas, searching for evidence of dust. If you listen carefully, you’ll hear the hum of air filters.”
“Should I breathe?”
“I don’t,” he said, then took my hand and turned me toward the grand dual stairway. I had never seen one like it.
“Wow. Why two? Ascending and descending? And the way they arch, the work in those balustrades. I half-expect the queen of England to come walking down.”
“You’re not far off. The concept is known as an imperial staircase. It was originally designed for the flow of guests arriving and departing in palaces and theaters and such, but ours only leads to the bedrooms in this house, only my father or I could see my mother or the maids descending. But what’s a grand mansion without one of these?” he said. “Coal barons were like kings once.”
He led me left to the dining room, which had a gilded white marble-topped table that could seat eighteen, a mirrored wall, and an impressive Persian rug that nearly covered the whole room. On the other wall was a painting of a stern-looking man, appearing regal as he stood with a mountain range behind him.
“Who’s that?”
“Madison Morley, the original owner of the mansion. My mother thinks it makes the house more grand to keep him up there. I think he looks like someone who’s surprised he had blood in his veins. My mother gets angry when I ridicule him. C’mon,” he said, and we walked through the kitchen to a small dinette in the rear. Every place I looked and everything I saw sparkled and shone. Nothing was out of place. In fact, it looked more like a model home than a home in which people lived.
“It’s like growing up in a bubble,” I said, without thinking.
“Exactly. In many more ways than one. That was also the main reason I didn’t have many friends over. I was actually embarrassed. Before she was shipped off, Jo had friends over occasionally, but the maids were instructed to pounce the moment they left. My father claims one of the maids has been ordered to enter his bedroom when he gets up to go to the bathroom and remake his bed before he returns.”
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“His bedroom?”
“As long as I remember, they’ve had his-and-hers bedrooms with adjoining doors. I think the door adjoining theirs these days has been cemented.”
“I wondered about that. I mean, since . . .”
“I never thought of my parents as a lovey-dovey couple. Sometimes I think theirs was an arranged marriage. You know, like royals used to have.”
“Oh,” I said, seeing that the smaller dinette table was already set with salad plates, main plates, water glasses, silverware, and, at the center, a stand for pizza like the ones in restaurants.
“Who did all this?”
“I emailed Martha, the head housekeeper. The pizza was delivered and is in the oven being kept warm. The salad is in a large bowl in the refrigerator. I asked that we be permitted to serve ourselves. Shall we?” he asked, and pulled a chair out for me. “I’ll show you the rest of the house afterward. Did I mention that we have an indoor pool?”
“No,” I said. “How could you forget to mention that?”
He shook his head. “We filthy rich take so much for granted.”
He brought out the salad bowl and placed it beside me.
“Help yourself,” he said. He returned to the refrigerator and brought out a bottle of Chianti. “My father gets this by the case.” He opened it and poured us each a glass. Then he took some salad for himself. “Let’s toast to something before I take out the pizza.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow,” he said after a moment. “As long as you’re in it.”
I smiled. We touched glasses and sipped, looking directly into each other’s eyes. Then he took out the pizza and put it on the stand.
“Wait,” he said after slicing it. He went to a console on the wall by the refrigerator and pressed a button. “We’ve got to have some Italian music to make this authentic.”
Almost immediately, I heard the famous Three Tenors.
“I can play this through the whole house,” he said. “There’s a remote in practically every room, too, and video security in each. Everything is on Wi-Fi.”