My new house came with eerie connections

There were no virtual house tours when this 20-something couple dreamed of a move to Long Island. We lived in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, in a building long on history and short on heat. Incredibly, our landlord’s name was Joe Paradise.

“Mr. Paradise,” as I called him, tried “bleeding the pipes” and weatherproofing the windows — everything but adjusting the thermostat.

It was 1972, and my husband, Mike, and I were searching for our dream home in Levittown. Because of our modest means, the search went on for months.

One Saturday, being weary of yet another day on the Belt Parkway with our 2-year-old, I sent my husband out alone to find our castle. There was a triumphant smile on his face when he returned from Nassau County. He had found a house! OK, not a perfect house, but better than perfect — affordable!

Our $24,000 offer on the two-bedroom Levitt cape was accepted, and we drove the Belt Parkway and Southern State often to visit OUR house before the closing. Taxes were $900 a year.

Meantime, my mother and I had received an invitation to a friend’s bridal shower at the bride’s home in Levittown. What a perfect opportunity to show Mom that I was a big girl now, with a pending mortgage and everything! My husband drove Mom and me out to see our Hilltop Road dream house. My mother, being my mother, began talking to the sellers (more like an inquisition).

When she asked where they were moving, their answer sent shock waves through both of us. They were moving back to their hometown, Rutland, Vermont.

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Rutland, Vermont? I was born in Rutland, Vermont! My father was born and raised there! Everyone knows everyone there, and gossip is as much a staple as maple syrup.

We called my father. Dad, a self-proclaimed expert in the town’s oral history, said he knew the seller’s extended family. We laughed, shared stories — and then went to yell “Surprise!” at the nearby shower.

At the house closing a few months later, the attorney asked whether I had been known by a different name in the last 10 years. Sitting on the other side of the table was the seller, who answered for me, offering up my maiden name.

After we walked away from the closing with just $2.50 in our savings account, we drove to our new home.

When we walked in, the seller was packing up. She greeted me with a photo and asked whether I recognized anyone. It was an old, yellowed class picture; the children looked to be about 12.

I didn’t recognize anyone. The seller pointed to a girl in a white dress with a rag-tie bow in her hair and said, “This is your aunt Helen, your father’s sister.”

I stood frozen. I was only 24, and this day was getting even more overwhelming. Could I write it off as serendipity, or was something deeper at play?

She told me she would be taking the class picture back to Vermont. (I’d hoped it came with the house.)

My husband and I were excited about the house, but also anxious about whether we could pay the bills. The house was very much a fixer-upper.

However, the photo changed things for me. I settled into a mindset that said, “I can do this. I have roots in this house.”

I reflected on my path to the door on Hilltop Road:

My aunt Helen’s picture had traveled there from Rutland, Vermont.

My husband found that house without me.

We bought the house because it was affordable.

My aunt Helen’s picture rested there for 20 years, waiting for me to arrive.

I knew everything would work out.

And it did.

Reader Rose Warren lives in Plainedge.