Tag: House

Story of a House: Rose Cottage

Rose Cottage

James Tufts’ first foray into vacation homebuilding, once again a showplace

By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner

A rose is a rose is a rose . . .

However, Rose Cottage looks and lives very differently than when it was built by James Tufts in 1895 — among the first of about a dozen. This house, intended as a rental, then sold in 1905 for $1,050, had few neighbors and a clear view to the Carolina Hotel and nascent Pinehurst village. Its tight floor plan, consisting of seven rooms, a small sun porch, and one bathroom, begged expansion accomplished by subsequent owners over the next three decades, culminating, circa 1940, with the colorful Razook family. F.R. Razook, a Lebanese immigrant, and his wife Rose had established a haute couture ladies’ boutique in Blowing Rock, N.C. They followed the money to Pinehurst, Palm Beach, Manhattan and Greenwich. While the Great Depression wiped out some clientele Razook’s thrived on survivors. Gen. George Marshall’s wife (with a home in Pinehurst) reportedly purchased the gown she wore to Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation from Mme. Razook.

However, by the 1960s, this rose had faded. The younger Razooks came down for holidays only. Modernization stalled after 1940. Gorgeous heart pine floors slumbered beneath ratty broadloom. Critters overran the attic. The layout had been chopped into a warren of small rooms of indefinite purpose. The kitchen was a period piece and the bathrooms . . .

***

Lisa and Bill Case — retired lawyers who married in 2008 — weren’t looking to rebirth a landmark. They knew what such projects entailed after living in the German Village section of Columbus, Ohio, a revitalized neighborhood on the National Register of Historic Places. Bill first visited Pinehurst with his father, on a business trip in 1964. He brought Lisa, a new golfer, with increasing frequency, telling her during a Thanksgiving jaunt, “You have to play No. 2.”

Slowly, as retirement took shape, Pinehurst looked promising — not only for golf. “We were footloose, could go anywhere, but we kept coming back here,” Lisa says. They liked the climate and population potpourri. However, this time Lisa wanted a sleek modern residence, “No curlicues, easy to keep clean.” A Realtor gave them the tour; they passed Rose Cottage without going inside. Yet the charm of the old place caused them to ask for a walk-through.

They returned to discover the house a mess, old and tired from not being occupied. But quality materials, location and antiquity left an impression.

“Bill’s eyes were like saucers,” Lisa recalls.

Options were discussed and decisions were made during the 8-hour drive back to Columbus.

“As long as you give me rooms for guests and a kitchen that I love . . . ” Lisa said, having recently remodeled hers. “We could see ourselves living here.”

They took the leap in 2013 with a lowball offer. Their Columbus house sold in a day. Down they came with one dog and two cats, hired a designer and builder, rented a condo for the duration.

Bill: “I thought we’d gut the bathrooms and kitchen and do the rest later,” which, as it happened, was like being a little bit pregnant. Their builder wisely advised a “one fell swoop” plan, to avoid tearing the place apart twice.

And tear it apart they did, moving interior walls, combining cubbies, creating spacious bathrooms and storage, opening up the staircase with a transom and handsome banisters all without altering the footprint.

***

The result begs questions, reveals surprises. What purpose, the room just inside the front door? Larger than a foyer — likely a parlor before the enormous solarium was added. To the immediate left, the dining room with an off-center fireplace could have been a ground floor bedroom for grandma, as was common in houses of that era; formal dining rooms weren’t required since the first Pinehurst cottagers ate communally. Windows at the end of the dining room suggest a small sun porch. Ceiling beams, now painted white, could be original or an addition. Then, in a bay window area connecting dining room to kitchen, the Cases created a conversation nook/butler’s pantry/bar.

As stipulated, much attention went into Lisa’s kitchen. “We splurged on the soapstone counters,” she admits. They are black, the walls throughout a soft, soothing grey, the cabinets white. Color pop comes from her unusual red gas range and dishes in a variety of bright primaries. French doors open onto a brick patio, which they added.

The real main floor knockout, however, is that 30×20 foot solarium, a veritable fishbowl with three complete window walls not covered by shutters, shades or drapes. Here, the Razooks held high society soirees. Now, Bill’s stringed bass fills a corner, silent but decorative.

“People look in . . . we wave to them,” Lisa says.

Upstairs a narrow hallway, sloping from age, leads to three bedrooms with niches and windows set low on the mansard walls, creating a treehouse effect. Nobody knows why the Juliet balcony off the master bedroom lacks a door. Obviously, it wasn’t planned for sitting. “We crawl out the window and decorate it for Christmas and July 4th,” Lisa says.

Ever the conservationists, Bill and Lisa created sliding pantry doors from original hinged, moved the porcelain kitchen sink into the laundry room, made free-standing cabinets from removed built-ins and salvaged old knobs for pegs. Since no clawfoot bathtub survived, Lisa chose a reproduction.

Because all but one room is moderately sized, the house doesn’t feel like 3000 square feet, “But we use every inch,” Lisa says.

Across the garden, a former carriage house/garage has become Bill’s man cave, repository of baseballs and books, where he researches and writes. Bill appreciates history and its icons: he owns a mint-condition 1954 Mercury used in the Johnny Cash film bio Walk the Line. A Waring blender with glass canister has been converted to a lamp. And on the walls hang a continuation of golf course art, both paintings and photos, appearing throughout Rose Cottage. “We marshaled at St. Andrews in 2015,” Lisa says proudly. Other wall décor includes their “happy place” beach in Scotland, archival photos and documents relating to Rose Cottage, personal mementos, and a Columbus landmark — the Wonder Bread factory sign.

The couple’s furnishings — his, hers and theirs — stretch the eclectic concept. An heirloom sideboard looms over the dining room like a frigate. A round English-manor hall table centers that mysterious front parlor. On the mantel stands a trophy dated 1941, won by Bill’s mother at the (prophetically) National Rose Show. Lisa found fertile hunting grounds in Moore County consignment shops — everything from an ornate French chateau desk reproduction and carved settee to tables and chairs with contemporary Scandinavian lines. When pushed to feature a color, as in the master bedroom, Lisa chose “cat’s eye” green, a pale avocado evocative of bygone days.

“Doing the outside is my next project,” says Lisa, who completed a Master Gardeners’ course. As yet, neat plantings neither overwhelm nor detract from the house itself. Lisa is learning what grows well in this warmer climate. “I’m thinking about a pollinator garden, but so far, it’s a work in progress.”

All in all, Lisa and Bill have adapted the prototype Pinehurst cottage to active retiree living: original wide baseboards and doorframes meet recessed lighting. Long halls become gallery space. The black-and-white magazine kitchen co-exists with a Welsh cupboard. An exterior painted the white and money-green, popular mid-20th century, gives no hint of what lies within.

Bill and Lisa are pleased. “We’ve learned ‘porching’ . . . sitting outside with a bourbon at four in the afternoon, watching the world go by,” says Lisa. “Our neighbors are wonderful. This house has good vibes.”

With one ghostly exception: “I was lying in bed and Bill was watching TV. I swear I heard somebody standing by the bed. She whispered, ‘This is my house.’”

To which Lisa rightfully replied, “Oh no, this is MY house now.”

Kings of the Castle

An architect out to conquer the world blazes a trail through Vineland

By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner

North Page Street has a certain aura, a whiff of bygone times — a neighborhood apart from elegant Weymouth a few blocks east. The faded houses sit back aways, sheltered by towering magnolias. Even the ones in disrepair appear family-friendly, with wide porches where kids played on rainy days. Residents once strolled down these streets of an evening. Yards twinkled with fireflies, waiting to be caught in Mason jars.

Children skipped up to Broad Street for ice cream.

Back then, time was marked by passing trains. Now, the early summer haze is shattered by hammers and saws wielded by sweating hard-hatters working for Dean King: architect, developer, builder, entrepreneur, businessman, preservationist. A boyish 40, Dean exudes the enthusiasm of a teenager out to conquer the world.

“I want to build for myself. I want to take risks, flip houses, make money,” he says.

Not only does he walk the walk and talk the talk . . . he lives the life. Dean, his beautiful wife, Tori, and adorable children, Levi and Josie, occupy, for now at least, half of a rambling Southern Victorian guest house — Magnolia Lodge — which he bought, tore down to the studs and built back as a duplex, which he will eventually rent, as he does the other half, probably to military families.

Annie Oakley slept here. So did Al Adams, whose mother operated the guest house with nine units beginning in 1936.

“It was a wonderful house to grow up in,” says Al, who lived there from age 4 to 19. He recalls climbing the magnolia tree to eat scuppernong grapes from the arbor — and getting cornered by a wasp. At mealtime, he rang a bell calling boarders, mostly retired Northern ladies, to the table. After dinner, they would play croquet on a court where the garage now stands.

Much as they love millennial transformation, the Kings will move when Dean finishes renovating the rambling classic a few hundred yards away. Tori’s on board; in 11 years they have moved nine times, saving thousands by taking advantage of the two-year tax deferment.

How so, these urban nomads?

Dean grew up in Rockingham. His talents surfaced early. “I was always artistic, liked to build stuff,” meaning a kids’ hideaway and a two-story tree house constructed with scrap lumber. He parlayed his skills into a degree in architecture, from UNC Charlotte, then lived high in North Carolina’s largest city. By day, he worked for a company that designed hotels. By night, “I enjoyed myself like a young man living downtown and making good money should.”

Not good enough. “I didn’t want to sit in an office — and hotels didn’t excite me.”

A friend who started Pinnacle Development Design Build in Southern Pines suggested he move. Dean knew the area, realized the potential. Tori, a high school teacher and photographer from Ohio, supported the idea.

They relocated in 2005. With partners and associates, Dean designed several projects, including The Pinnacle Lofts on West Pennsylvania Avenue and Broad Street Lofts, both examples of the urban redevelopment trend which entices people to live downtown, or nearby, in new units or repurposed buildings, with services within walking (or biking) distance. The concept took hold in the ’90s as decaying factories in Manhattan’s Soho, Tribeca and Meat Packing District became fashionable condos. Abandoned tobacco warehouse and textile mill residential developments in Durham and elsewhere followed suit.

Dean was convinced: “Urban density is the way to go.” A younger demographic was discovering downtown Southern Pines, one that could afford west of the tracks (formerly Vineland) but not the historic district, where “cottages” designed in the Roaring Twenties by Aymar Embury have been rebirthed as mini-mansions.

Building Pinnacle Lofts was straightforward new construction, but buying an entire block of North Page Street (with a partner) in 2014 seemed risky, since 100-year-old structures like the Magnolia are usually money pits.

“I was scared to death,” Dean admits. Removing asbestos alone cost $25,000.

The house had stood vacant for half a dozen years. Dean describes the interior as “gross,” which actually proved inspiring. Since nothing but the bones and chimneys were salvageable, he could follow his imagination.

Because “imaginative” best describes the interior.

But first, the porch — 48 feet long, with a slanted ceiling and original posts and floorboards that Dean labored to preserve. Before social media, people connected on porches. Here, Tori and Dean sit for hours on rockers and a church pew they salvaged from a fire pit. “I like to think how many people have sat on this front porch in the last 100 years,” Tori says. The porch is especially useful, since the house has no conventional living room. Instead, just beyond the front door, what Adams remembers as Magnolia Lodge’s lobby became the foyer and family dining area with a sloping ceiling, built-in shelves under the stairs and a bay of paned windows. Tori’s office with separate entrance, formerly Al’s bedroom, is off to the right.

Front, center and open stands the kitchen — something that would have been hidden out back in the early 1900s when the house was new. A massive butcher block from White’s Grocery in Rockingham, a business run by Dean’s family, represents the past, along with simple cabinetry, exposed shelving, an oxen-yoke pot rack, ceramic tile backsplash, a bank of brightly painted school lockers, original doors and windows with wavy glass. Tori has brightened snow-white walls, moldings and columns with faux antique signs and vivid pottery. The original floorboards, some approaching 20 feet, must have been milled from tall local heart pine. Exposed brick chimneys, board-and-batten walls, panel doors and moldings provide texture.

Off the kitchen is a narrow sitting room — more TV den than parlor — which suits the young family. Bath and powder rooms, none quite the spa variety, were wedged into the tight layout.

“Dean is good at maximizing space,” Tori says.

Wall décor is limited to poster-sized art photos of the children.

A narrow flight of stairs with original banister and newel posts leads to the bedrooms — adequate but not huge. “People don’t spend time in the master bedroom anymore,” Dean reasons. But he did provide a dressing room and closets, often tiny in even spacious Southern Victorians.

At the top of the stairs a sunroom with original stained glass panels and a low table and chairs is where Levi and Josie draw and play games. “My mother used to grow flowers there,” Al says as he points to where the bedrooms had been, even remembering names of the boarders.

The house has a third floor with more bedrooms, but given its condition, Dean “left it for the ghosts.”

Except for a few old pieces, the furnishings throughout pit Ikea against Pottery Barn — sleek, tasteful, utilitarian, perfectly suited to a young family on the move. Tori boldly mixes formal upholstered dining room chairs with a rough picnic table and benches. An old railroad trolley serves as a coffee table in front of a modern sectional sofa with a side table painted pastel turquoise. Woven rugs in geometric patterns complete the casual look.

An attached double garage is, Dean admits, a necessary anachronism. He will tuck one around back, out of sight, in their next address, just down the street.

“But I’m not sure we’ll ever have a forever home,” Dean admits. Until then, “We’re living in a brand new 100-year old house . . . with good vibes.” PS

2017 Feature House

The Happy House

A young family appreciates the old and enjoys the new

By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner

In the 1940s, with the world deep in World War II, Walt Disney created Happy Valley as a Technicolor backdrop for animated films. Here, the sun forever shone, flowers bloomed, birds chirped, bunnies hopped and all was well — a remarkable resemblance to the grounds surrounding the home of Dr. Ed (dentist) and Ginger (interior designer) Monroe. Tucked out of sight on a forested Weymouth lane, the brick ranch rooted in the ’60s but now painted vanilla practically glows.

Rosie, a black Lab puppy, wiggles greetings but does not bark. The manicured grass is brilliant early-spring green, the swimming pool crystal azure and the azaleas — some from Pinehurst’s famous Clarendon Gardens — a dozen shades of pink.

Inside, 9-year-old Janie plays the piano and guitar while 5-year-old twins Charlie and Hunter construct Lego vehicles. Almost every evening the family gathers around the dining room table for dinner and conversation.

“It’s our time to regroup,” Ginger says.

This scene — quintessential feng shui — fulfills a note Ed wrote to their Realtor, when acquisition of the property seemed uncertain. He promised to “fill the house with love and laughter.”

The story of this acquisition matches the results.

“We sold our first house when Janie was 4 and I was 7 1/2 months pregnant with the twins,” Ginger begins. “We hadn’t expected to sell it in one day so we had no place to go.”

Not a pretty predicament.

“Then our Realtor called. ‘I think we found a house, but it’s not on the market yet.’” Ginger walked up and down the driveway, enchanted by the rhododendrons in bloom, hardly noticing the house. “I called Ed. His parents came and looked. I was so afraid we would lose it because somebody else was bidding.”

They made an offer which, with the help of Ed’s letter, was accepted.

Ed grew up with three brothers in a ranch house in West End, where his family has lived for 100 years. “We wanted this neighborhood; the house has a great layout for little ones.” Now, Ginger, in advanced pregnancy, faced moving into space which needed freshening and moderate renovations. “We moved in on June 4; the twins were born on July 30,” Ginger says. “By then, the work was 90 percent complete.”

She remembers feeding the babies while the range hood was being installed.

In truth, before Ginger-the-designer waved her wand, the brick ranch built in 1963 was — inside and out — quite ordinary except for an odd floorplan. Imagine, no living room. Instead, the U-shaped kitchen extended to a pine-paneled “family room” with vaulted ceiling, sliding glass doors and fireplace surrounded by built-in bookshelves. Guests could view whatever transpired in the kitchen — a preview of “great rooms” popular in the ’90s. No breakfast room, either, although the long counter has bar stools and a small multi-use table is pushed against one wall. Also missing, a master suite with spa bath/dressing room. Instead, a mother-in-law wing was added by the second owner, creating an L for Janie’s room, an office, laundry room, two children’s play areas and a guest bedroom exiting to the terrace.

Even a moat filled with alligators could not spoil this location.

Here stood the Highland Inn, which burned in the 1950s. “We still find old bricks and pottery in the ground,” Ginger says.

Weymouth, once an enclave of imposing residences built as winter homes for wealthy Northerners, is slowly recycling to younger families. On a nice day, moms in Spandex push jogging strollers along the narrow, winding streets. Historic “cottages” of the 1920s sport glamour kitchens and entertainment centers. Smaller gems like the Monroes’ are screened by pine groves.

Ginger (from Winston-Salem) and Ed (a Moore Countian) met in Charlotte, in 2004. She was familiar with the Pinehurst resort but knew little of Southern Pines. “For a small town it has such history and beauty,” which she compares to the charm of Winston’s historic residential districts. Ed wanted to establish a solo practice, easier in a familiar location. They purchased a house with tiny yard in Weymouth; after five years, given their growing family, relocating became a priority.

The Monroes are only the third owners of the house built by John Valentine, who occupied it until the 1980s. The pool is original — Ginger and Ed added a handsome wood fence — but the second owners built the L-wing. Ginger could either convert this space into a master suite or redo the kitchen. She chose the latter but opted to keep and paint the dark cabinets, replace wall-and-ceiling-mounted ones with simple shelves, enlarge a small window, push out the dividing counter, and install new countertops and appliances.

Flooring was already satiny hardwood.

The absence of a formal living room didn’t bother them at all. “The outside is our living room,” Ginger says. She brightened the dark floors, ceiling and built-ins with white-patterned rugs and white washable shabby-chic slipcovers on chairs, which stand up to three kids and a dog. A Seth Thomas clock, circa 1855, belonging to Ed’s great-grandfather, dominates the mantel, while his grandmother’s “secretary” desk anchors a corner.

Ginger loves fabrics — pillows are her trademark — using them for bursts of color everywhere, turquoise against burnt orange, bright navy awning stripes, deep money-green toile, faintly Asian reds and pink. Her showplace is the oversized dining room flooded with light from a bay window with window seat, a charming ’60s holdover. These vibrant colors, reflecting a year Ginger spent in Spain, play off her turquoise china displayed in an antique breakfront, also painted vanilla, from a consignment shop. They picked up the dining table at a yard sale.

One exception: an elegant crystal chandelier in the Paris Fern motif illuminating the front hallway.

Otherwise, Ginger admits, “We went furniture shopping at our parents’ houses.”

Somehow, this 3,000-square-foot house seems full without being cluttered. “I’m a minimalist,” Ginger continues. “Paint is the easiest and least expensive way to transform a room.”

Landscapes by local artists, family photographs and portraits line the walls, including one of the children dashing into the ocean by Ginger herself. Miraculously, she has embraced the passé architecture and décor of the ’60s, adapting it to the needs of a young family instead of moving walls. The children have ample play areas, including a room with a floor-to-ceiling world map and a raised playhouse overlooking the pool. The gracefully landscaped yard, nearly an acre, is fenced so Rosie can romp off energy. The wide veranda works well for summer entertaining. Ginger added shutters and window boxes for cottage charm. A detached double garage — what a bonus.

Ed is pleased with the result. “I kinda go along with what my bride likes,” especially since she included Woody, his cowboy mannequin floor lamp.

“The most important thing is how the house makes you feel, a warm, welcoming place,” Ginger concludes. Someday, she might replace the sliding glass with French doors, perhaps alter the footprint by extending the L, or build a proper master suite. But for now, “This is a loved house,” she says, where all is bright, all is practical, all is well and, as promised, all is happy. PS

2017 Feature House

A Mystic Reincarnation

Letting a house speak for itself

By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner and from The Tufts Archives

If only the walls could talk.

We can.

We walls surround a house now surrounded by others that once stood alone in an infant village with muddy roads and big dreams — a village which, as founder James Tufts wrote, “would attract only a refined and intelligent class of people.” Our double-decker wraparound porches were meant for sitting and watching . . . very little, at the start. Today, the world strolls by. Music and aromas fill the air. Porch chairs are occupied by progeny hungry for history.

We walls, some plaster, formerly white, now sport a rainbow of blues: blue and grey and grey-blue and teal and almost turquoise; some of us old walls remain covered in grasscloth, also painted blue. No amount of scraping, stain or polish disguises our heart pine floorboards — although carpets and rugs of all sizes, shapes, colors and provenance draw attention to their antiquity with this exception: Flooring in the back hallway comes from a longleaf pine felled recently by lightning on Pinehurst No. 2.

Our exterior shingles, once white also, are a misty gray reminiscent of haze over the Mystic River, which flowed near the Tufts residence in Massachusetts. Nobody knows why the door blazes burnt orange.

James Tufts built our Mystic in 1899 for his son Leonard who, after his father’s death in 1902, moved his growing family to Pinehurst and took over resort operations. What a mansion it was — 14 rooms, vaguely Queen Anne, designed by the same Boston architects as the Carolina Hotel. The Pinehurst Outlook described Mystic as “having steam heat, throughout with electric lights, a large steel range and cold storage for preservation of meats and vegetables.” The second floor bathroom was “fitted with the latest improvements such as sanitary plumbing, a porcelain bath tub and one set of bowls.” Also: Antique oak furniture and “rich Brussels carpets.” The Outlook further commented: “Nothing has been left to be desired. Mystic Cottage has a home-like appearance notably lacking in homes located in other winter resorts.”

Palm Beach, perhaps?

After Tufts moved across the street to Mistletoe Cottage in 1913, we were occupied by, among others, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hunter, of Berkeley, California. Mr. Hunter, described as a cranky socialist and writer, took issue with Tufts over heating bills. “You charge the extreme limit for every service you render to the people of Pinehurst. You have driven away a large number of people . . .”

But not the lady ghost, rumored to be a lovelorn poet.

Nevertheless, the resort continued to grow, to prosper, and we continued to adapt. Our walls were reconfigured into apartments, offices, a bank branch and finally, Brenda Lyne’s home décor business. Lyne installed an elevator which, though convenient, seems anachronistic to us.

Then, in 2013, not without contention, Mystic was rezoned residential and sold to Richard Moore, CEO of First Bank, and his wife, Noel — definitely “intelligent and of refined tastes.”

The walls fall silent as another voice emerges.

“I fell in love the first time I went through (Mystic Cottage) when it was still a store,” Moore says. First Bank was moving headquarters from Troy to Southern Pines. He needed a place to stay during the week. He was also a Wake Forest history major, who had rebirthed Ashburn Hall, a 19th century meeting venue near Oxford.

But, the ever-practical walls query, why live on a busy village corner instead of a quiet cul-de-sac?

“I wouldn’t have picked downtown except for this house. I was happy to put money into a landmark that would be connected to First Bank,” Moore answers.

Banker-turned-rehabilitator Moore accomplished the redesign sans architect, quite the feat considering the scope of his plans.

“There’s practically nothing original on the inside — two fireplaces, one door,” also a darling wood-paneled dormered nest on the third floor, presumably the maid’s quarters. “I tried to be creative in where we put the bathrooms,” he adds, recalling the Tuftses and their three children had one and the Moores desired six.

Or is it seven?

No matter. Their vanities — repurposed antique bureaus — make the loos as elegant as the parlors.

What Moore accomplished was a maze of sitting areas (“so everyone could have their own space”), bedrooms (none vast), recreation (billiard room, TV nooks) and a kitchen, which, in an era of culinary ballrooms, illustrates restraint. “There was no kitchen; I just took a guess.” From the coffered ceiling — which Moore devised as a “strong statement” — to the painted cabinets and breakfast room with round table and pub chairs, Moore has created a contemporary kitchen shadowing the bygone.

Just imagine, in a renovation costing many zeros, no Sub-Zero!

“I went with Sears,” Moore says.

The walls’ primary purpose, aside from loquaciousness and connecting miles of moldings, is backdropping an art collection that would wow even persnickety James Tufts. Furnishings, none heirlooms, blend in; upholstery has been kept neutral lest patterns detract from paintings. Art of multiple spectra is the Moores’ passion, if not trademark. Above the living room fireplace hangs, of all things, an original Marilyn Monroe by Andy Warhol.

“When my wife walked through the house she said, ‘You need Marilyn there.’ So she bought one for me.” Even walls that stare at nothing else have trouble describing gilt-framed English landscapes by Duncan Cameron and American masterpieces by Impressionist/Expressionist Jane Peterson, also Dale Nichols, in the style of Grant Wood. Yes, that is pop artist Roy Lichtenstein, also, and a Toulouse-Lautrec print, but the enlarged photos were taken by the Moores’ son, William, when he worked for the United Nations.

Times, they have a-changed. Our chatty walls must learn a new script. Or amend the old one. Because once again, Mystic Cottage hosts a family of substance and taste, who appreciate both history and now-time. Other cottages may crowd its perimeter, but the interior still boasts “the latest improvements,” more likely zoned AC and Wi-Fi than electric lights. Of an evening, Richard Moore watches the world James Tufts sought to attract go by from a porch where Leonard’s children played on rainy days.

Whither the ghost? She hasn’t been seen for years. Just as well. Marilyn might scare her to death. PS

Southern Pines Home & Garden Tour

Mystic Cottage and five other premier area homes will be on display at the 69th annual Southern Pines Home & Garden Tour, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. on April 8. For the first time, the tour will take place on Saturday. Also included, the public gardens at Weymouth, Campbell House and Sandhills Horticultural Gardens. An exhibit of original watercolor landscapes will be on display at Campbell House. Tickets are $20 until April 5 at Campbell House and The Country Bookshop in Southern Pines, and The Woman’s Exchange in Pinehurst, or at www.southernpinesgardenclub.com. Day of tour, tickets may be purchased for $25 at the houses. Profits from garden club events fund scholarships and beautification projects.

2017 Feature House

Horse Heaven

Sliding comfortably into its horse country surroundings an interior decor of memorabilia harkens to an equestrian heyday

By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner

Heirlooms often grace Southern homes: Grandpa’s desk, Auntie’s slipper chair. “We started from scratch. Our furniture’s from Pottery Barn,” says Chrissie Walsh Doubleday, granddaughter of legendary equine trainer Mickey Walsh, founder of Stoneybrook Steeplechase.

“I put it together,” adds husband Peter Doubleday, internationally known horse show manager/announcer and, by the way, descendant of Abner Doubleday, the apocryphal inventor of baseball.

Yet, beyond a standard sectional sofa and some-assembly-required tables and chairs, Doubleday House at Little Squire, the Doubleday’s Adirondak-style lodge, is a veritable bulletin board chronicling two fascinating lives: photos, posters, paintings, stuffed animals, ribbons, figurines, saddle pads, books, awards and, marching atop the kitchen cabinets, 100 beer bottles with interesting labels.

Peter nods an affirmative: “I drank every one.”

Fifty plants, bathed in light from oversized bare windows, provide a greenhouse effect. One precious photo shows Mickey Walsh riding pony Little Squire, sans saddle or bridle. Dominating another wall is a painting of Walsh (who died in 1993) by local artist Dani Devins; this was returned to the family after being auctioned off at hunt balls.

What some brand as clutter, Chrissie calls history.

Chrissie belongs to the land surrounding their home. She grew up in a log house within sight, later lived in a nearby cabin. Her father’s veterinary office was yards away. She, her four siblings and 29 cousins knew every rock, rail and puddle in the compound. Beyond the equestrian life, Chrissie taught chemistry and coached track and field for 28 years at Pinecrest High School.

Peter, from snowy Syracuse, New York, lived down the road when he met Chrissie at a Christmas party. “I knew of the family, of course. They were famous . . .” he says. In 2005, soon after they married, her parents sold them five of their 17 acres for a house. Subsequently, they purchased another five and added a small barn.

Neither had any architectural experience, which didn’t stop Peter from scrawling a plan on a napkin at O’Donnell’s Pub. They liked the work of Southern Pines architectural/interior designer Denis McCullough who translated the napkin into a home unlike neighboring showplaces.

Little Squire defies labels.

Chrissie: “I wanted (the interior) to be a semi-circle and the outside to blend with the trees.” This meant angled interior walls which give the rooms irregular but interesting shapes.

Peter: “I saw a picture of a house with cedar siding, hunter green and blood red trim, like houses in Lake Placid.” The clapboards and shingles also reminded him of “cottages” in the exclusive Hamptons, where he announces events.

Multiple roof pitches and a cupola topped by the weathervane from Stoneybrook complete the rustic appearance. The Irish flag honors immigrants Mickey and Kitty Walsh who arrived in America in the 1920s — and in Southern Pines in 1939.

Chrissie was adamant about layout. “I wanted everything in one room.” That living room-dining room-kitchen-bar with wood-burning fireplace stretches nearly 50 feet facing outward to the terrace, paddock and barn. A long refectory table fills up fast at Thanksgiving and Christmas, since Chrissie’s sister and niece also maintain houses on the property. From the open kitchen in a far corner, the cook stays part of the action. Black granite countertops are covered not with cooking paraphernalia but photos of “good people,” Chrissie says. “We wanted pictures and themes everywhere to reflect horses and racing.” Peter’s artifacts contribute the broadcasting dimension, which include the 1996 Olympic Games in Atlanta. “Peter’s a collector. He just kept putting stuff up and I said . . . whatever.”

A guest suite with separate entrance at one end of this panoramic great room offers privacy. Adjacent to it, a combination “entertainment” room and office. Peter loves music; a wall of CDs covers every genre but classical. “Vinyl’s coming back,” he says, pointing to long-play albums. The opposite wall of shelves displays Chrissie’s books and in the middle, a throne-sized red leather chair and ottoman. On hot afternoons, after barn chores Chrissie retreats here to read. The master suite with small terrace and second wood-burning fireplace — Chrissie’s lifelong dream — occupies the opposite wing.

Their outdoor environments include a small screened porch on the front and a larger one between the house and the patio which, by spring, is filled with flowers and often with guests. The Doubledays have no trouble fitting 100 friends and colleagues inside and out. “Our guests feel at home as soon as they open the door,” Peter says. They especially enjoy the DIY bar with tall vinyl-topped bar stools and well-stocked shelves.

A small pool built long before the house cools hot and dusty riders.

Nothing formal, everything practical and intensely personal. Floors throughout are low maintenance tile brightened with area rugs. Wide, handsomely framed doorways ease the flow from wing to wing. A coffered ceiling buffers noise. No palette unites the décor, although every hue found in nature appears here.

Chrissie got her wish: from a distance, the house melts into the woods.

A piece of Chrissie’s heart beats faster in the small barn, shelter to Guac, a retired racer with a speckled coat called flea-bitten gray. Surprisingly, “I’ve ridden all my life but this is the first horse I’ve ever owned. He’s taught me a lot in the saddle and on the ground,” she says. “They test you. I’m supposed to be the boss but we’re still working on that.” Chrissie feeds, grooms, rides and cares for him — and Burrito, his adorable donkey companion — herself. She’s in the barn by 7 a.m., takes a break around noon, out again at 4 p.m. and to “check on things” before bed.

These are happy hours. “I spent a lot of time with my parents before they died,” she recalls. “Afterwards, things sort of fell apart, family-wise. I needed something to fill the void.”

The Doubledays’ luxury is not in antiques or professional-grade kitchen appliances but in living a continuity. “It’s just the two of us; we didn’t need a monster house,” says Peter, although as arranged, the 2700 square feet appear larger. Its location allows the couple to bike into downtown for First Fridays or a pub evening. But mostly they like to stay put. Peter, who travels many months a year, answers to homebody.

“I need a crowbar to get Chrissie out,” he says.

She responds: “I’m just very proud to still own this family property,” which honors her parents and grandparents. “They worked hard to create the farm, and Stoneybrook. It’s the only home either of us has ever built . . .”

And, Peter concludes, “We plan to stay here forever.” PS

2017 Feature House

Home for Christmas

Worldwide religious art backdrops the holiday in Whispering Pines

By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner

Centuries before Santa, Rudolph, Alvin and Frosty, decorating for Christmas meant festooning the Madonna, Baby Jesus and saints with ribbons and greenery. The custom endures at the lakefront residence of Emi and Colin Webster.

“Christmas is a religious holiday, after all,” Colin observes, still allowing a 13-foot tree to dominate a living room with an 18-foot ceiling.

Now, their sons grown, only one small St. Nicholas remains.

Aside from respecting the sacred, the Websters’ interest springs from art collected while living, working and traveling the globe. For openers, Emi was born in Chile of British/French/Chilean lineage, schooled in England, Argentina, Germany and Switzerland. She met Colin, of a similar Scottish/European background, in kindergarten, in Chile, where their parents had attended each other’s weddings.

“Then we went our separate ways,” Colin says. He reconnected with Emi, an advertising executive, on holiday in Spain in 1986. They married the following year, honeymooned in Wales (where the collecting began) and settled in Chile.

“Before that, I had a bachelor’s pad,” Colin continues. After marriage “I looked at life differently.” Subsequently, as an executive at Proctor & Gamble and other multinationals, Colin was posted on six continents with artifacts to prove it.

Made sense to acquire treasures, small and enormous, while employers subsidized shipping.

But with such glamorous options, how did they land in Whispering Pines, on a 4-acre peninsula jutting into Lake Thagard?

After an early retirement Emi and Colin (who had also lived in Miami) investigated places to settle. Colin’s father purchased a house in Southern Pines in 1980; Emi and Colin visited often, deciding that after 13 moves and many schools the U.S. was better for their sons’ education. They bought a home in 2001, later 100 acres with the intent to build, which they decided would involve too much maintenance. Then one day they saw a For Sale sign on the prime peninsula property and snapped it up based on the view, knowing the house could be transformed — an understatement, since Colin, bored with retirement, had become a home-builder familiar with the finest materials and workmanship, while Emi had turned to real estate brokerage.

No architect or interior designer was required to almost double the existing 3,500 square feet by extending the footprint beyond the core and rearranging interior space to suit their needs and fit their furnishings, which include two glass-topped coffee tables with turned bases made by Colin. By working round the clock, the renovation and additions were completed, unbelievably, in 30 days, while the family lived on the upper floor.

“I didn’t have a kitchen so we ate take-away for a month,” Emi recalls.

The finished product includes park-like landscaping, a saltwater pool, pool house with dining area.

Colin’s method: Never start without a plan in hand. Don’t figure out as you go. Living in the house for several years had uncovered what needed changing. Being an accomplished woodworker helped. When Colin couldn’t find the right mantel he built one.

The result appears rather formal, slightly European, described as British Colonial, with Georgian overtones and a flash of Latin fire, yet comfortable — a place where the dog can stretch out on a sofa upholstered in High Point.

“This is how we grew up, surrounded by Spanish things,” Colin says. “You develop an affinity for them.”

Their most treasured “things,” however, remain museum-quality art, with Colin and Emi enthusiastic docents: A Peruvian Madonna painted, in part, by Jesuits in the late 1600s dominates one living room wall facing an equally massive archangel over Colin’s mantel. Shelves and tables hold santos — figurines of saints common in Catholic South America. Another Peruvian Virgin Mary greets guests in the entrance hall, while a wall niche resembling a shrine displays a French Madonna flanked by Venetian lanterns.

Colin brought back exquisite Russian Orthodox icons during an era of political unrest, when their value had plummeted, also Byzantine/Greek paintings and triptychs originating in churches or monasteries.

Colin is especially proud of a 16th century Spanish bargueno, or traveling desk, with carved and inlaid olivewood drawers, that would travel with a nobleman’s retinue.

From farther east they obtained a hand-sewn Egyptian panel, brass and copper urns from an Arabian bazaar. In the family room, built-in shelves hold their collection of pre-Columbian pottery.

Persian rugs on polished cherrywood floors delineate paths from area to area.

America, their adopted homeland, has not been neglected. In his office, Colin, a Civil War buff, displays a camp chair with battle names, including Appomattox, carved into the frame; also a Union Colt musket and functioning post-Confederate “machine gun” with bullets, manufactured in 1898 — one of only 10 in the U.S.

Delft liquor-bottle miniatures representing houses in The Hague, once given to passengers on KLM, and Royal Doulton Toby face jugs from Colin’s grandmother line the shelves of a kitchen hutch.

The kitchen itself, with a clear sight line past the family dining room to the lake, is more restrained than luxury food preparation palaces. Colin added panels to the serviceable 24-year-old double Sub-Zero and used a smooth electric cooktop instead of the requisite Viking or Wolf gas range. But two oversize ovens were necessary for Christmas and Thanksgiving meals attended by family and guests, served from a dining room table with a garland running down the center, composed of berries and greenery, designed by Carol Dowd of Botanicals.

“Emi likes things that are very natural, organic,” Colin says. “We use wreathes and put tons of greenery (alongside) their stuff,” which complements the ecclesiastical mode better than glitter.

Decorating the skyscraper tree with ornaments commemorating family events, topped by an angel from Germany, takes about two days. Magnolias and fresh flowers are added before the Websters’ famous Christmas party, where the space accommodates 100 guests.

On Christmas Eve the family gathers for a traditional Argentinean breaded veal dish and mince pies imported from England. Christmas morning, Colin and Emi sleep in while the boys unload their stockings, including ones for Bantu, the dog, and Panda, the cat. Later in the day, while the surround sound system plays Christmas music inside and out, guests arrive for a turkey (sometimes ham or roast beef) dinner ending with flaming English Christmas pudding.

Decorations stay in place until Twelfth Night, Jan. 6, when they are packed and stored, leaving the Madonnas, Magi and santos on their own.

“Afterward, the house seems so empty,” Emi says. Because, although they call their home Amancay, after an Andean day lily, . . . this is a house built for Christmas.” PS

2016 Feature House

The Now House

What’s old is new for a first time homeowning couple in Southern Pines

By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner

Savvy millennials Ashley and Casey Holderfield built a house to fit, exactly, their lifestyle and demographics. They wanted . . .

A cottage like those built in the mid-1900s near downtown Southern Pines.

A pocket neighborhood popular with other young couples who grew up here, left, and are returning to raise families.

Space skewed per their needs: a huge front porch furnished for entertaining; open interior with large kitchen but small living room and dining nook because “we eat and hang out” at the bar-island, Ashley says.

A shotgun layout with bedrooms off a long unobstructed hall, perfect for 10-month-old Evie’s crawling expeditions.

Two smaller porches, one for grilling, the other a balcony off the master bedroom.

A vaulted beadboard ceiling with skylights and many windows to stream natural light.

A detached garage, primarily for storage.

Wall space for Ashley’s nascent art collection (including a contemporary splatter painting by the two), furniture in dark woods reminiscent of the Craftsman era interspersed with family heirlooms, like a grandmother’s dining room table, and repurposed finds.

Yes, that bar cart displaying Casey’s bourbon trove was a baby’s changing table, now with tile shelves and brushed metal towel racks. Ashley confidently placed a giant upholstered chair across a tiny corner. Built-in bookshelves keep small objects out of Evie’s reach.

“We use every inch,” Casey says.

Beadboard-paneled doors echo the informality.

Yet despite a modest 1,600 square feet, the living space and porches have accommodated 30 guests who flow from area to area.

This arrangement bespeaks a professional touch. Ashley studied interior design and architectural planning at Appalachian State University. This is the first home they have owned, therefore her first opportunity to make a statement implemented by a builder-friend who, Casey says, held their hands through the process.

Casey and Ashley have been together since high school, he at Union Pines, she at Pinecrest. They lived in a similar pocket neighborhood in the Myers Park district of Charlotte before deciding in 2010 to repatriate. “My dad grew up in Raleigh so I was familiar with the older bungalow style,” Casey says. Ashley agreed on the motif, which includes tapered porch columns set on brick bases popular in pre-World War II Southern architecture.

Given their definite ideas, new construction seemed more practical than search-and-remodel. But finding an oversized lot choked in bamboo was beyond luck. The couple had made an offer on another piece when Casey’s father discovered this one — and snapped it up.

Ashley and Casey moved in with the senior Holderfields during the six months construction.

“We oversaw every little detail — I was familiar with suppliers,” Ashley says.

From the street, a deep setback, mature bamboo and wax myrtles give the house a settled appearance. Pale green siding blends into the foliage. Instead of a walkway, stepping stones through the grass lead to the wide porch, where bold black and white striped fabrics keep the wicker contemporary. Ashley is big on holidays. Fall is their favorite season. Ceramic pumpkins decorate the porch and interior before Halloween, remain in place through Thanksgiving, then lights and multiple trees announce Christmas.

The cottage theme may channel 1930s exteriors, but homes of that era hid cramped kitchens out back. The Holderfields sited their food preparation space a few feet from a front door surrounded by dark-wood panels and moldings. Again, the glass-paned white cabinets suggest informality. The sink, part of the granite island/breakfast bar, faces the living room and mantelpiece-mounted TV. “I like to participate in what’s going on,” Ashley says. However, Casey is the primary cook, while Ashley does the holiday baking.

“Sometimes we open a bottle of wine and cook together,” Casey says. Thanksgiving means a vegetarian brunch followed, later, by roast Tofurkey.

In the master bedroom with a tray ceiling and corner windows (wooden blinds another retro touch), Ashley has, once again, fitted a massive upholstered bed frame into an average-sized room. The guest bedroom has an unusual iron bed, also a family piece. Ashley’s palette throughout derives from nature — deep brown, soft green and, in the master bathroom, oceanic turquoise. “We love the outdoors,” she says, proven by taking a six-month furlough from their jobs to hike the Appalachian Trail in a time frame encompassing the 2014 U.S. Open Championship. Rent from the house supported their adventure.

That was before Evie, the princess-resident of the third bedroom. Casey objected to pink, purple, frou-frous, but Ashley found white, sand and teal rather boyish. So, she added a shaggy fur rug and, of all things, a metallic gold fabric ottoman which has become the baby’s favorite, along with a sound machine that lulls her to sleep with a whooshing mimicking the womb environment. Jungle animal prints and a near life-sized baby giraffe complete the assortment.

This nouveau cottage representing trendy urban redevelopment lives well, Casey affirms. Before Evie, they walked downtown to restaurants, bars and First Friday. Now, they and other young parents push strollers to parks, play dates and the farmers market. Later on, the kids will attend public rather than private school, Casey hopes.

“We did a pretty good job for the first time,” he concludes. But, Ashley concedes, now is fast turning into tomorrow.

“It’s almost too small already.” PS

2016 Feature House

Comfort Zone

How a classic Pinehurst cottage brought a globe-trotting couple home at last

By Deborah Salomon • Photographs by John Gessner

Anyone who doubts a couple in midlife prime can radically change careers, continents, lifestyles and homes needs to look in on Kirk and Victoria Adkins at Red Gables, a 107-year-old, one-of-a-kind Pinehurst cottage that flouts the luxury revamps shared by contemporaries.

No paneled Sub-Zero, spa bathroom or sound system. One TV, zero chandeliers. Master bedroom barely wide enough to accommodate a king-sized bed. A garden filled with homey zinnias. A far cry from the Adkins’ British country manse, their London muse (row house) with pink exterior, an iron-gated farmhouse in a Parisian suburb or the glass-walled Hong Kong condo fifty-two stories above the harbor.

Not to say this restraint implemented by soothing hues and minimal furnishings isn’t gorgeous. Or that Kirk and Victoria miss the opulence.

“It feels good to get back to ‘comfortable,’” Victoria says. “Possessions don’t make you who you are. I’m happier now working (in real estate) than I was going to museums and social events.”

Kirk, glows with pride over how impossible engineering feats like air conditioning were engineered: “Every inch is usable — not a spare space, even behind walls, that we didn’t make into cupboards.” Besides, Victoria adds, “The village is a happy place.” Kirk finds its residents interesting and worldly, retired from careers in finance, medicine, law, management.

Kirk belonged in the corporate column. After an MBA from Wake Forest University, the Indiana native was posted internationally for twenty years as an executive at the Sara Lee consumer goods division, then Hanes. He and Victoria, a special education teacher, dated in high school, reconnected at a friend’s wedding. As a “corporate wife” she became an expert at moving — nineteen times, covering four continents. To keep their two sons and adopted daughter from Siberia rooted in America, they rented a house on the Jersey Shore for summer vacations.

When Hanes discontinued operations in Hong Kong, Kirk was still young enough to chase a dream: “I wanted to get into golf,” not as a pro, or an equipment retailer. “I wanted a degree in agronomy.” In other words, he wanted to arrive at the course before dawn, plan for and supervise crews who kept the terrain in optimum condition. Adieu Savile Row suits and leather briefcases and business class flights. Bring on the rain jackets, sunscreen and golf hats.

Kirk applied to Purdue University and North Carolina State University, only to be advised that what he needed was the kind of hands-on program offered by Mike Ventola at Sandhills Community College. In 2012 Kirk and Victoria rented a house in Pinehurst while he attended SCC and interned at Forest Creek.

“We didn’t plan to stay after that,” Kirk says. But, Victoria adds, “We met people and fell in love with the village.” Kirk currently serves as assistant superintendent of world-famous Pinehurst No. 2.

Rank that alongside Kate Middleton’s aesthetician or Stephen Curry’s physical therapist. Obviously, Europe had refined their housing requirements: something with history, character and a unique feature. Something close to the action, like twenty-five yards from the Carolina Hotel driveway.

The Carolina Hotel, along with the village, was nouveau-chic when, in 1909, Bostonian Emma Jane Sinclair commissioned architect W.W. Dinsmore to design a winter home with satellite cottages for her married daughters. The Pinehurst Outlook of that year called it “A little gem, in mission style, with bright red rows of tile and stucco walls . . . which adds tremendously to the attractiveness of the outlook from the hotel.”

In truth, the Southwestern exterior probably raised a few eyebrows among residents who chose the more familiar white clapboard/black shutter New England motif.

In 1918, the property was sold to coal baron Henry B. Swoope of Pennsylvania — a descendant of one of George Washington’s Revolutionary War colleagues. Swoope’s letters to tradesmen on file at Tufts Archives show his displeasure at the milkman for running out of cream — also arrangements to have unloaded an entire railway car of “egg” (large lump) coal for his and other furnaces. Poor Mr. Swoope died in 1927, at 46, leaving a wife and nine children. The house later passed to L.L. Biddle II of the prominent Philadelphia family, later intermarried with the Dukes of Durham.

When the Adkinses discovered Red Gables, barely used by Canadian owners, the property stood neglected and sad. “We asked people about it and they said, ‘Run, don’t walk away! You’d be crazy to buy that house!’” Victoria recalls.

But Victoria and Kirk saw only the unique features: a vaulted ceiling over the living room; beadboard walls and terra cotta tile floors; original three-over-three square windows with wavy glass; an attic that could be opened up as a master suite.

They hired a contractor, a designer — and dug in.

First, the AC. The stucco exterior and painted beadboard walls made conventional ductwork impossible. A space was created over the kitchen ceiling and behind the attic knee wall for the new system. Victoria moved the front entrance to an existing patio door and converted the vestibule to a pantry. The hopelessly dated kitchen was opened up with an island separating it from the dining area, which replaces a formal dining room and flows into the living room. The window removed to make room for a refrigerator was re-installed elsewhere. Light was a priority; the living-dining area has only one lamp, but Victoria increased recessed spotlights from 28 to 90. An entire wall of windows in addition to French doors further brightens the main floor. Although modest in size, the practical kitchen suits Victoria and Kirk, who both cook.

A narrow hallway leads to two small bedrooms joined by a double bath, Kirk’s office and, at the end, a sun porch, now Victoria’s office with adjacent laundry room.

Bathrooms were renovated but not enlarged. One clawfoot tub remains.

The major new construction was the master suite overlooking the living room, accessed by a narrow staircase original to the house.

“I like the way the boards creak,” Victoria says.

Creating the loft sitting area, bedroom and, especially, the bathroom presented a second challenge. “They said we’d never fit a shower in there,” Kirk smiles, pointing to the large glass-enclosed installation. Fitting a mirror over the sink was another puzzle that failed several times before succeeding. Finally, the master bedroom, as planned, proved too narrow to accommodate a king-sized bed. Victoria wouldn’t budge. The dimensions were altered. Still, the sleeping space is smaller than dressing rooms in most luxury homes.

Victoria and Kirk think differently. “What more do you need than a bed and nightstand?” she says. “Our first night was so much fun, like sleeping in a treehouse.”

Above the bed buzzes a triple ceiling fan resembling airplane propellers encased in wire frames . . . just mesmerizing.

The Adkinses’ frequent moves were not conducive to amassing furniture. Even so, to prevent any sense of clutter, Victoria refined her collection to one or two antiques per room. The palette of dusky turquoise, soft green, beige and vanilla unite and soothe, from area rugs to dog-friendly leather upholstery. A credenza from France fills an entire wall in Kirk’s office, while his desk is British. Kitchen shelves and counters display Victoria’s collection of blue pottery jugs and canisters. Tiny lights illuminate glass-front cabinets.

One tall, non-functioning radiator holds potted plants. Dark-stained beams in the vaulted ceiling, beadboard walls painted cream, pine flooring found in the attic satisfy Victoria and Kirk’s love for wood. Art reflects Kirk’s golf involvement. Just inside the front door hangs their signature piece. The nine-by-four-foot painting, done in photo realism, depicts Kirk and Victoria, their children and dogs, playing in Kensington Gardens adjoining the Albert Memorial in London. The artist tricks the eye by repeating the same family members in different sections of the park.

The wall, prominent and perfectly sized for this treasure, helped convince Victoria to take on Red Gables, at 2,450 square feet by far the smallest of their homes. Converting the free-standing garage into guest quarters is always an option.

The house stands on half an acre, about one-third of the original parcel. Much of it was overgrown with vines, home to snakes and varmints. A backhoe was brought in to clear the front yard. Victoria decided on simple groundcover and a clear view of the hotel beyond the lighting kiosks that flank the driveway entrance. The red tile roof had been replaced but otherwise, Red Gables exterior remains much as it was during Pinehurst’s Golden Age.

“For us, (the house) is magical,” Victoria says.

“We got rid of a lot of baggage, which has taken stress out of our lives,” Kirk continues. “We have what we need and need what we have.”

Or, as Victoria sighs, “What a relief!” PS

2016 Feature House