- SHOWINGS START 8/21 - It began, as these things often do, with a house that refused to behave normally. Black as licorice and twice as bold, 500 Tanacrest Dr. does not introduce herself. She expects to be recognized. She sits with unnerving symmetry, chin slightly lifted, a cape-cod roof line softened by a white picket fence and a garden that curls at her feet like a well-trained cat. A brick walkway leads to three front steps adorned in rod-iron railings and a polished pine door. Some homes say, Welcome. She says, You're late. The Foyer is a small gallery of specific tastes, blond oak floors, a built in coat rack that appears to have a PhD. The staircase, painted in Oak Leaf Brown, rises with dignity, its Persian runner soft and soundless, a passage, not a performance. A tiger, a cowboy, and a set of polished bull horns. Nothing matches. Everything belongs. The formal living room is curated. Cool. A composition in balance and texture. Overhead, a glass-blown chandelier hangs with sculptural restraint, less a fixture, more a punctuation mark. And while some dining rooms are used for dining, this one isn’t. It was made for low lighting and hands of cards played with fine whiskey and conversations that slip past midnight. Through the doorway, a kitchen of quiet warmth. Where stews simmer slowly and butter melts into fresh-baked bread. Sage cabinetry provides a grounded backdrop, anchored by a deep farm sink and a brass bridge faucet that catches the afternoon light. Floating oak shelves rest above hand-glazed porcelain tile, imperfect, intentional, softly luminous. A den with walls the color of aged brandy and the temperament of a retired professor. It smells of pine and the quiet tension of chess games that never quite ended. A record player spins something obscure but perfect. The window seat invites loitering. The built-ins are lined with well-thumbed books and curious objects collected across decades and borders: an African mask, an old Polaroid camera, a banjo hanging on the wall. It’s a chapter you haven’t read it yet. East of the den is a sunroom that only works when it's raining. Here, the furniture is retro, the cushions faded with affection. Conversations slow. Feet are bare. Outside, a tangle of chartreuse branches lean close to the glass, they murmur secrets. You’ll think of someone you used to love. You’ll text them. You won’t send it. Upstairs, the bedrooms are layered, moody and quietly indulgent. The owner’s suite must be experienced to be believed: every detail intentional, every finish harmonious. She has opinions too. She prefers fountain pens to laptops, record players to Bluetooth, linen to polyester, and she categorically refuses to be flipped. She’s been described as curious, moody, a bit much, and once, by a seven-year-old with impeccable instincts, probably alive. She is, however, refreshingly low-maintenance with a new roof and a dry, full basement. And if you’ve ever dreamed of living inside a forgotten novel, or hosting a dinner party where someone casually pulls out a harmonica, then this, is probably your home. DON'T MISS the YouTube Wes Anderson Movie about this home.... (search 500 Tanacrest Dr.)
