I was standing in the living room of the “nearly done” Craftsman looking at cracks running diagonally up the plaster walls and across the ceiling.
“Every house from Madison Park to the lake has those. From the ’65 quake,” beamed Penny, the pert little realtor with the brand-new white-on-white Land Rover parked out front.
“Oh.” Like that explained everything and made me want the house even more.“Of course, everything on the downhill side of Broadway is on a fault. All sliding slowly into the lake.”