I've finally found my dream house and am hopeful it will enable me to connect with Blythe Summers and channel her spirit.
Some may think me weird but I've always been fetishistic and believe an aura surrounds certain places, particularly houses, where people have lived their lives and shared their intimate secrets.
I've been secretly enamoured all my adult life with Blythe Summers who embodies for me all the beauty and elegance of the Jazz Age and like an exotic bloom her work exudes its sweetness like a rare and sweet perfume.
I'm looking forward to discovering vestiges of her in the house and inhaling the scent of her charm and mystery in every one of its rooms.
A few days after moving in, I find an original copy of Blythe Summer’s final book of poetry entitled, Spring and Other Beginnings. It’s in a trunk in the attic and I’m particularly excited because it contains marginalia—hand-written pencil notes and observations by the author.
Blythe referred to her notes as Segues—an appropriate term since I can find no way of relating them back to the text, nevertheless, I spend many hours sitting before the fire trying to divine some purpose behind the mysterious jottings.
I conclude the entries might refer to something else—another book perhaps, or something mundane, because they appear to be so trite. For example, one note states: In May, walk up from the fishpond by the cobbled path and enter through the side door.
That little scribbled message makes absolutely no sense, and it feels weird finding it in the margin of the book.
As I settle in, I prowl about the house inspecting every nook and cranny, and make more discoveries.
I find a lovely portrait of Blythe shoved in behind the furnace in the basement. I can’t understand why such an alluring piece of art should be so callously disregarded.
I dust it off and hang it over the mantel where I feel it belongs.
I then sit back with a glass of Shiraz in hand, admiring the portrait.
She has an ethereal beauty, this Thirties poet, accentuated by huge eyes and cropped wavy hair.
There’s something about her expression that fascinates me and I spend hours staring at her likeness and wondering what she would have been like in real life.
Stella drops by occasionally to check in on me to see how I’m adjusting to the new house, and she’s amazed that I’ve made no attempt to redecorate. She offers suggestions about modernizing the décor, but I gently decline.
“Blythe and I are happy with the house the way it is,” I laugh.
“I can see that,” she chirps “you seem to be channeling her spirit, or at least the Thirties vibe.”
“Why not? It was a very good year.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Right, and I think Old Blue Eyes wore out the grooves on that recording—you should update your music library.”
Of course, the latter jibe is aimed at a Billie Holiday record playing scratchily in the background.
“A chacun son goût,” I laugh breezily.
She looks at me quizzically at first, and then smiles and shakes her head in wonderment. “I really can’t get over the change in you, Theo, but it’s all good—you look like you’ve finally found yourself, or your niche.”
“I think I always was an old soul, and am just now beginning to discover it.”
The strange thing is, as I say it, I begin to believe it myself.