The first house: Beach house 3

While the first floor carried the heart of the beach house, the levels below slowly found their own rhythm.

We focused most of the renovation on the main floor, and only made minimal changes to the ground floor and half basement. But sometimes, it’s those quieter spaces that become the most personal.

A small staircase leads down from the living room to the ground floor, where the house opens directly to the backyard. We turned this level into a den—something between a workspace and a retreat.

Along one wall, I installed long bookcases and filled them with books collected over time. In front of them, I placed a simple seven-foot walnut desk. It was understated, intentional, and grounding. Then came the layers that softened the space—a colorful rug spread across the floor, and a curved-back sofa upholstered in a fabric that looked like a watercolor landscape, with a deep green seat cushion anchoring it.

The sofa sat perpendicular to the desk, facing the double-hinged doors that opened to the backyard. On days when the weather was kind, those doors stayed open, and that spot became my favorite place to be. I would sit there, a little lazily, with a book in hand, the outside air drifting in. It was a perfect balance—part workspace, part escape.

The walls were painted in a warm, creamy tone, just enough to hold everything together without competing with the colors of the books, the rug, or the sofa. It became a space that quietly calmed you down the moment you stepped into it.

And then, there was one more level down.

A smaller staircase led to the half basement—a space that felt entirely different from the rest of the house. Here, I chose a deep, rich green for the walls. Dark, enveloping, almost unexpected. I painted this area myself, slowly, intentionally, wanting it to feel personal in a different way.

We placed a comfortable sofa facing the fireplace, with a soft, shaggy rug underneath. Small objects, artwork, and mirrors were layered along the walls, catching light in subtle ways. It became a space you didn’t just sit in—you settled into it.

While the rest of the house felt open, breezy, and filled with light, this room was the opposite. It was a hidden nook. A place to tuck yourself away with a book, to feel wrapped in warmth. That contrast was intentional. I wanted one corner of the house to feel like a quiet secret.

And it worked.

Whenever guests visited, I would bring them down there last. There was always a moment—a small pause, a shift in expression. A quiet surprise. That reaction alone made the space feel complete.

I truly lived in that house.

I enjoyed every part of it—the dust and noise of construction, the careful layering of each detail, and the everyday life that slowly filled the spaces. Every corner holds a memory. Even now, I can still walk through it in my mind, room by room.

When it was time to move on to the next project, it wasn’t easy to let go. There was sadness in leaving, of course. But there was also something else—something quietly reassuring. I saw the new owners step inside and fall in love with the home. With the light. With the feeling.

And that, too, brought me joy.

Sometimes, when I happen to be nearby, I drive past the house. I don’t go in. I don’t need to. Just a quick glance as I pass by is enough.

Because everything I loved about that house is still there—living gently in memory.

Carrying it with me, I keep moving on.