Clearly a labor of love,” the electrician wryly noted after probably his 15th visit to our house. It’s a refrain my husband, Chris, and I heard often over the two and a half years we spent renovating our East Hampton, New York, weekend home. We suspected that even our nearest and dearest friends, who’ve endured some of our most ambitious projects (a derelict 1885 brownstone in Park Slope, Brooklyn, being the most recent), were secretly shaking their heads in disbelief, grateful this wasn’t their money pit.
The historic 1890s house was one we knew well, having pedaled past it for some 20 years on the way to our favorite beach. It was in danger of being torn down, as our bidding foe was a builder who, like any rational buyer,…
