I'm a builder by trade. So I hear, Martha nodded. Well, you've come to the right place, then. That old house needs someone who understands craftsmanship. Thomas was particular about his home, always using the best materials.
The finest workmanship. "Did you know Thomas Blackwell? " "Well," Ethan asked, curious about the man who had left them this unexpected inheritance. "As well as anyone, I suppose," Martha said, a shadow crossing her face. "Thomas and William Grant owned the steel mill together. They built Riverdale into something special.
Good jobs, good wages. People were proud to work Blackwell Steel. " "What happened to him? " No asked. Mrs. Simmons said he disappeared. Martha's eyes flicked to the boy, then back to Ethan.
That he did, May of 197 just vanished, left his car in the mill parking lot, and was never seen again. She began ringing up the groceries they'd selected. There was talk, of course, rumors that he'd embezzled money from the company, but those who knew Thomas never believed it. And William Grant, Ethan asked, what happened to him? Took over the mill entirely after Thomas disappeared.
Ran it into the ground within two years. Martha's voice hardened. Sold off the equipment, cut the pensions, moved production overseas. Typical story these days, but it was shocking back then. As she bagged their groceries, Martha studied Ethan with a penetrating gaze.
There are two kinds of people who come to Riverdale these days, she said. Those looking to uncover the push and those trying to bury it. I'm still not sure which kind you are. The Blackwell mansion appeared at the end of Elm Street as they rounded the bend, its weathered grandeur taking Ethan's breath away. Three stories of Victorian architecture rose behind a neglected row iron fence.
The once majestic structure now showing decades of abandonment. Paint peeled from ornate trim and great curling sheets, and missing shingles gave the roof a jagged, toothless smile against the sky. "Wow! " Noah breathed, and Ethan couldn't tell if it was wonder or disappointment. They parked and approached slowly, gravel crunching beneath their feet. With a craftsman's eye, Ethan noted that beneath the cosmetic decay lay good bones.
The foundation of locally quarried stone showed no significant settling, and the structural timbers visible through one broken window appeared sound. The restoration would be challenging, but not impossible. The front door key had come with the inheritance papers along with a note explaining that the utilities had been maintained at minimal levels to prevent pipes from freezing. When Ethan turned the key and pushed open the heavy oak door, it swung inward with a groan that seemed to echo through empty rooms. The entry hall took his breath away despite the decay.
A grand staircase curved upward, its banister carved from what looked like solid walnut. The floors were wide plank hardwood, dulled by dust and neglect, but showing glimpses of rich honey color beneath the grime. Crown molding ran along 14t ceilings and stained glass panels flanked the front door, casting colored shadows across the space. "Dad, look at this," Noah called from the parlor. He stood beneath a crystal chandelier, its hundreds of prisms catching the afternoon light streaming through tall windows.
Ethan joined his son, running his hand along the fireplace mantle. The marble was veined in gray and gold, and the carved details showed the work of master craftsman. Even in its current state, the room radiated elegance and history. They moved through the house like archaeologists exploring ancient ruins. The dining room could seat 12 easily, its mahogany table still gleaming under a layer of dust.