My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
I stood on the porch for several minutes after his sedan disappeared around the corner, holding the keys tightly.
By noon, the warmth of the Inland Empire sun had dried the grass, and a white van parked in the driveway.
A man in gray overalls stepped out, carrying three large paint cans and a wooden stir stick.
“Ms. Carter?” he asked, walking up the driveway.
“Yes, we are working on the living room today,” I said, opening the screen door for him.
He set the cans on the drop cloth he had laid out near the fireplace the day before.
“We have the neutral white for the trim, but you wanted to confirm the main wall color,” he said.
He opened a small fan of paper color swatches, each square showing a slightly different shade of blue.
“My mother always preferred deep forest green for these rooms,” I said, looking at the choices.
“Green makes these older rooms look smaller,” the painter said, pointing to a pale, soft blue.
“This one is called harbor mist,” I said, touching the square.
