Before the Hilltop House

Bryan Jones
7 days ago
4 min read

They were about to buy the lot and build their final home. The work was figuring out if it made sense before design started.

Aerial perspective of the completed Hilltop House

As we wrapped up our first meeting, we left her existing house and drove over to walk the property.

It was on a great street in their existing neighborhood. We walked the future teardown, talked through where things might go, how the grade would need to change, how the sun hit the property depending on the time of the year, and which parts of the neighbor's garden we could visually borrow. At the bottom of the driveway, as we were wrapping up the initial impressions, Meredith mentioned again that her dad, a contractor, had bought the property as a spec build but would sell it to, and build it for, them.

That is the moment I slowed down. I questioned whether Meredith's dad was collaborative and shared how our best projects are a product of the owner, the contractor, and what we bring to the table. Meredith confirmed that her dad would listen to her. I knew that for this to work well, we all would need to listen to each other.

From the outside, it looked straightforward. Empty nesters. Downsizing a bit. "Final" home. They had a clear sense of what they liked. Stone, glass, a combination of modernity with references to the remains of an old French country house. A house that felt like it belonged to them. And they were already under contract, with closing imminent.

Standing on the lot, none of that felt settled. The question was not what the house should look like. The work was figuring out if it made sense at all, before design, before commitment.

The site was not bad. It just was not easy. It had depth, which helped, but it tightened across the width and rose enough off the street to make a deeper house difficult to work out.

A place to arrive.
Flat outdoor space.
A compound organization.

None of that existed yet.

The first real move was not the house. It was the ground.

We pushed the house forward, turned it slightly to visually capture the neighbor's front yard and to orient the living side of the house to more sun, and started organizing everything around a parking court. Not because it looked good. Because the lot required it. Flat ground was not something we found on this site. It was something we had to make.

For the cars. For the entry. For the pool. For daily life.

As that began to take shape, the house's structure became clearer.

It could not be one object. It needed to work more like a compound. A series of connected pieces that could step with the land, separate what needed separation, and still read as one place.

That was not a design idea. It was simply what the site required.

In the background, there was another layer.

Her dad was the builder. Experienced, skilled, opinionated. We have seen that go both ways.

Early on, it was not clear how that part would land.

What changed it was time and clarity. The builder was passing down his craft for building a house to his daughter and her family. He cared about the outcome in a way only a parent can, and it showed. Over time, he came to trust that we cared just as much about the design as he did about the quality of construction.

By the end, there was real respect on both sides. He built it the way he builds. Solid, thoughtful, built to last.

The first sketches carried through. We made adjustments where they mattered. A mudroom in the right place. A half bath for the pool so people wouldn't walk through the house wet. Refinements like that.

But the structure stayed intact.

That is usually the tell.

Inside, the same idea carries through. Nothing is trying too hard. The spaces are open, but they hold.

Light comes in where it should. The rooms connect the way they need to. You can move through the house without crossing things that should stay separate.

And then there are the smaller decisions that make the house work.