Back in 2007, I had given notice at the ABC affiliate in Miami, and agreed to a start date three weeks later at the NBC affiliate in Greenville, giving us just two weekends to try to find a house.
The weekend trips looking for housing were pretty much disastrous, filled with frustration as we looked at a dozen houses, few of which worked for us, one of which we decided to buy that got sold out from underneath us.
My life partner, Eric, and I had narrowed our search to two neighborhoods close to the downtown, with the North Main neighborhood being where we most hoped to purchase. I believe that God directs the lives of those who want Him to, but no matter what you think, the next part of this story might make you a believer — of a higher power, or perhaps the whispering voices of ghosts.
On the verge of giving up, we turned left off North Main, took another left, and just as we reached the bottom of the hill, a young man was literally stomping a “For Sale” sign into the ground in front of a lovely little stone bungalow.
We leaped out of the car in such a way I am surprised the poor guy didn’t think he was about to be mugged.
“Are you selling this house?” Eric said.
“It’s my friend’s house,” he answered. “I am just helping him out. But yeah, he’s selling it and he’s pretty desperate. He’s had a couple offers fall through and he needs to sell.”
As we quickly walked through the small but reasonably updated house, we barely noticed the details, but what we found in the backyard clinched the deal.
In the surprisingly large, tiered backyard stood one of the most magnificent oak trees we had ever seen, at least 90 feet tall. Without the house included, I think Eric would have bought the tree.
To make a long story short, 45 minutes later we signed a one-page contract and bought the 1920s stone bungalow.
For the next 13 years, I worked as the digital managing editor at the great NBC station in Greenville, less than a mile from our stone house. My job was one of gathering and sorting information and writing and managing dozens of stories a week, from city commission meetings to serial killers and everything in between. The deadline pressure of the work was constant, which held appeal for me with my tendency to become easily bored.
When I finally reached an appropriate age to retire from the police scanners, multiple monitors blaring, phone calls to coroners, plowing through 30-page lawsuit filings, and the unending list of those unfortunate lives lost who became headlines, I decided it was time for me to step away from writing and managing news and let the bright, young, technologically enthused folks I worked with takeover.
By then, we had renovated and added onto our old stone house, Eric had left the family business and sold out in Miami.
We bought and renovated several homes in the neighborhood to rent out, creating our new income stream so we could both “retire.” I use the term loosely, because anyone who renovates, maintains, and rents homes is anything but retired.
Until I was deep into researching Elizabeth’s life, we had no idea that our stone house and three of the homes we rent out were all on property that Elizabeth had owned back before the turn of the century. That, along with every mystery and twist and turn in her life, made the writing of “When He Was Gone” an absolute life necessity.