OPEN HOUSE Saturday 10/18 2-4 pm
At the end of a hushed cul-de-sac, then it appears. Cedar-clad. Angles crisp enough to cut the air. An orange door flares like a lighter in the dark. Retro, revived. Waiting.
Pure rockstar status.
At the end of a hushed cul-de-sac, the house appears. Cedar-clad. Angles crisp enough to cut the air. An orange door flares like a lighter in the dark. Retro, revived. Waiting.
Step inside. Vaulted tongue-and-groove ceilings pour light like liquid gold. Blond oak floors stretch lean and long, warm as honey, soft underfoot. A fireplace wrapped in modern clay tile stares you down, commanding the room like a lead singer at mic check. Every fixture glows, tiny suns in orbit.
The kitchen hits a different note. Cabinets in mossy sage green. Soapstone counters, cool and dark, like river rock pulled from deep water. Sleek appliances smooth, silent, almost holly.
Down the hall, the powder room whispers. Low light, moody shadows, cinematic glow. In the mirror, you don’t just look good. You look famous. Guests stay too long, caught in their own reflection.
Bathrooms play with hand-glazed tile, checkered and imperfectly, perfect.
The owner’s suite. Larger than reason, louder than restraint. Above, a song writing loft or meditation sanctuary crowned with clerestory windows. Through them, the sky performs a seasonal art show sliding past like brushstrokes, sunsets arriving as private exhibits no one else will ever own.
Outside, nature presses in. Branches throw shadows, leaves sway like fans at a love ballad’s encore. The air hums, then a guitar solo cuts through. Goosebumps.
A new deck stretches wide, cedar siding freshly painted, a fire pit in the private backyard for late night fall gatherings.
Minutes away, The Battery roars with games, restaurants, and laughter. A double life. Serenity wrapped in adrenaline.
The two-car garage with floors so clean you could literally eat off them. But you’ll just park your fully restored metallic blue, ford mustang there instead.
Retro soul stitched with modern muscle. A 1980’s babe with a brand-new pulse.
The kitchen hits a different note. Cabinets in mossy sage green. Soapstone counters, cool and dark, like river rock pulled from deep water. Sleek appliances smooth, silent, almost holy.
Down the hall, the powder room whispers. Low light, moody shadows, cinematic glow. In the mirror, you don’t just look good. You look famous. Guests stay too long, caught in their own reflection. Bathrooms play with hand-glazed tile, checkered and imperfectly, perfect.
The owner’s suite. Larger than reason, louder than restraint. Above, a song writing loft or meditation sanctuary crowned with clerestory windows. Through them, the sky performs a seasonal art show sliding past like brushstrokes, sunsets arriving as private exhibits no one else will ever own.
Outside, nature presses in. Branches throw shadows, leaves sway like fans at a love ballad’s encore. The air hums, then a guitar solo cuts through. Goosebumps. A new deck stretches wide, cedar siding freshly painted, a fire pit in the private backyard for late night fall gatherings.
Minutes away, The Battery roars with games, restaurants, and laughter. A double life. Serenity wrapped in adrenaline. The two-car garage with floors so clean you could literally eat off them. But you’ll just park your fully restored metallic blue, ford mustang there instead. Retro soul stitched with modern muscle. A 1980’s babe with a brand-new pulse. Pure rockstar status.