If You Were Here

by Jen Lancaster

  I take off my coat and come over to kiss him. Then I sneak a glance into the saucepan. I’m no chili aficionado, but I’m pretty sure it’s never supposed to be that color.

  “See anything worth noting today?” he inquires.

  “Sort of,” I say, grabbing a glass of wine from the fridge. I’m having chardonnay, not so much because I need a drink, but more because I’m hoping the oak resin will set up a Flavor Protection Perimeter between my tongue and his chili. (I also keep a secret stash of peanut-butter-filled pretzels in my desk for nights Mac cooks dinner.)

  I take a deep, protective swig before continuing. “The place on Goldenmill had a Liberace bathroom.”

  Before I continue, here’s where I need to apologize to everyone who’s ever prompted me to roll my eyes on HGTV. I always get so mad at the people who can’t see past the aesthetics of a place, but it turns out that’s easier said than done. Sometimes when I spot something so blatantly hideous, like fake bamboo wallpaper or one of those knit toilet-paper holders topped with a doll’s torso, I question all the homeowners’ decisions, starting with the one to buy this particular house. I mean, a tufted silk ceiling is one thing, but a sad clown painted on velvet? No.

  He glances up from his simmering pot of unpleasantness. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the bathroom was mirrored everywhere, and I’m not kidding. I’m talking on the ceiling, on the back of the door, on the vanity, and on the floor. Plus there was a rounded wall, and in the curve there were about twenty long, narrow strips of mirror. Topping it all was a gigantic mirrored chandelier.”

  At that point in the day, I’d had about six lattes, so I ended up needing to use that bathroom. I now know what I look like while taking a leak from fourteen different angles. I kept swinging my head around so I wouldn’t make eye contact with myself, but no luck; I was everywhere. FYI? There’s some stuff you just can’t unsee.

  “Nice.” He stirs his pot, and then licks the spoon when he’s done. Did he just wince? Yeah. That bodes well. “What about the Cape Cod on Foxfield? I took the virtual tour and it seemed right up our alley.”

  “They must have shot the MLS listing photos while lying on the ground or something. The bedroom ceilings were so slanted I couldn’t stand upright. A place like that would require major reconstruction.” I rub the sore spot on my forehead. I hope the sellers aren’t too mad I dented their wall with my face.

  “Then maybe renovations should be an option,” he says, dumping a handful of salt into his bubbling potion. I shudder inadvertently. “If it means we get a bigger house or a better neighborhood, we should consider expanding our search to rehab properties.”

  Ack, the rehab-versus-redecorate discussion. This has been our perpetual “tastes great”–versus–“less filling” argument, and it’s the biggest reason we’re still in a rental house. He’s dying to take something down to the studs, while I’m really confident in our ability only to switch outlet covers and paint trim.

  Seriously, every time he says the R-word I can’t help but recall the time we bought our new chandelier for the dining room. Mac was convinced he could install it himself despite having never done so before, and even though the instruction sheet from Pottery Barn clearly stated, You should really call a professional for this; no, really, we mean it.

  To his credit, he was able to manage the assembly and the mounting of the fixture. After it went up and he went to the basement to flip the breaker, I was awed by how merrily the chandelier twinkled for six whole seconds before the switch plate sparked and we lost power in half the house.

  The best part was when Mac tried to get the electrician to convince me of what a good job he’d done up until the part where he almost started an electrical fire. The electrician agreed, saying that if indeed Mac had realized we had a triple rather than a double switch, he’d have done everything right. And yet as I wrote out the two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar time-and-a-half check for the repair, I failed to recognize this victory.

  As Chandeliergate 2008 is still a sore point around here, I don’t bring it up. Instead I say, “I thought we agreed renovations would be too troublesome. I mean, I want to put my mark on a place, but I had new paint and carpet in mind, maybe a little crown molding. Possibly some light cabinet hardware shopping.”

  An oddly determined look crosses his face. “Listen, we’ve spent every Saturday for the last year watching HGTV. What they do only looks difficult. Do you know how easy it is to rehab a bathroom if you’re just swapping vanities and exchanging fixtures? Most of the work comes from the teardown, and I can swing a sledgehammer and rewire an electrical panel. The only hard part’s moving pipes, and we can outsource that to a professional.”

  “You spend one high school summer working in a lumberyard and all of a sudden you’re Bob Vila?”

  He wipes his hands on a dish towel and begins to ladle out our dinner. “No, I’m saying we’re capable of doing more than you’d guess.”

  I mull this over while collecting napkins, spoons, and enough bread and butter to absorb the taste of our dinner. When he’s finished preparing our bowls, he sits down across from me and places his hand over my left hand. “Promise me you’ll at least consider our buying a rehab.”

  I glance down at the gelatinous blob in my bowl and I cross the fingers on my right hand under the table. “If we can’t find a house that’s move-in ready, then yes, I promise.”

  And I mean it. Mostly.

  Yet there’s a part of me that also recalls spending a year of Sundays watching the Food Network. For all our copious research, I’m still about to eat a bowl of blue stew.

  We’ve officially looked at every move-in-ready house in Abington Cambs.

  Now what?

  I’ve spent the past few days furiously trying to complete an overdue chapter, and the eyestrain from staring at the computer is killing me. Between the pressure of the deadline and the anxiety of not finding a house, I’m completely wound up and stressed out. I decide the best way to reward and revive myself is a long soak in the tub with a couple of chamomile tea bags over my eyes.

  I’ve been in the tub for about twenty minutes when I hear an odd noise. It’s almost like . . . whispering? I sit up for a second, removing the washcloth that’s keeping my tea bags in place. I pause to really listen, but then I don’t hear anything. I’m not terribly concerned, because the alarm system is set. I have it armed at all times now, ever since ORNESTEGA’s little pals flashed their gang signs at me.49

  I reapply my tea bags, reposition the washcloth, and, using my foot, nudge the faucet to run enough hot water to revive my bubbles. Ah, that’s the stuff.

  A few minutes later, I hear the weird sound again, but I ignore it. It’s probably just the TV downstairs. I’ve taken to leaving HGTV on twenty-four/seven. Every time Sandra Rinomato helps her Property Virgins find their first place, my hope is renewed. I mean, if people who have almost no budget can find their dream home, we’re destined to find something great, right?

  Anyway, sometimes the volume goes up during commercials, especially when the Sham Wow guy’s ads run. No big deal.

  I hear the odd noise a third time and that’s when I smell something akin to cologne and cigarette smoke. I pull off my jury-rigged chamomile mask, and when I do, I am faced with what appear to be two Japanese businessmen inspecting my steam shower.

  I scream and then they scream and we all scream, yet with all the screaming going on in my bathroom, no one gives us any ice cream.

  The screams do bring Vienna running, though. So that’s a plus.

  “Ohmigod, break my eardrums, why don’t you?” She stands in my doorway, hip-slung and aggravated, clad in a sundress constructed of what appears to be a fitted yellow shower curtain, paired with four-and-a-half-inch gladiator sandals. 50 She points at the two men peering down curiously at me before returning to texting while talking. “This is Mr. Oshiro and Mr. Takamoto. I don’t know who’s who, but whatever. They’re real estate investors from Japan. They might want to bu
y a piece of my company.” And on cue, both gentlemen bow.

  This is surreal.

  “Hi, nice to meet you and welcome to my home,” I say with a nod to the men. They bow again. “Oh,Vienna? In case you failed to notice, I’m taking a bath here!”

  “Yeah, I noticed.” She snickers. “I noticed your shoulders are totally fat.” Then she briefly removes her fingers from her crystalstudded cell phone and puffs her cheeks and presses her finger to her lips. This causes the Japanese men to nod appreciatively at her gesture before bowing again.

  What does . . . ? How could . . . ? I’m so torn between complete rage and abject mortification I can hardly form a complete thought. I finally sputter, “I’m sorry, but are you insane? Why are you here? You’re obligated to give me two days’ notice before you let yourself in, and you know that. You’re trespassing, and technically I could have you arrested right now.”

  “Doubtful,” she replies with a toss of her clip-on hair. What sucks is, she’s right. If the Chicago PD didn’t haul her in the night she drove her Bentley into all those “boring people”51 at Enclave, I imagine this is small potatoes.

  I curl into myself and sink as low as I can under the bubbles. “How did you get past the alarm?” I hiss.

  She begins to twirl one long, white-blond polystyrene extension. “Ugh, your stupid alarm. Pain in my ass. I had the guy cut the wires a few weeks ago because it kept going off, like, every time I came in.”

  I can feel my blood boiling, and if it weren’t for my overwhelming fear of public nakedness, I’d have leaped out of the tub and throttled the bitch by now. With gritted teeth I ask, “Where are my dogs?” I suddenly have a vision of her simply opening my gate and letting my pups run free. And if that’s the case, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. I’m about to go full-on Swayze up in here.

  She shrugs and bats her overly mascaraed eyes. I take great pleasure in noticing that the left one is a tiny bit wonky. “Last I saw, they were on the couch. They totally love me; all dogs do. It’s one of my, like, many gifts.”

  “That’s just great. Oh, FYI? You can leave anytime now,” I suggest. “Or not, of course. Because there’s nothing at all embarrassing or inappropriate about my being nude while you conduct business with a couple of Japanese dudes. I’m sure they’re used to it, what with bathhouses being a big part of their culture.” When I thrust a soapy finger in the men’s direction, they both bow. Argh.

  She doesn’t budge from her spot. “Whatevs. Listen, can you get up? The guys wanna see if the tub’s jetted.”

  And now it’s time to not be nice.

  I hurl my bubble bath at her. “Get out, get out, get out!” She scurries out of the line of fire as the bottle splats against the glass door, oozing big emerald green streaks. Misters Oshiro and Takamoto follow her, but not without giving me a cursory bow first.

  You know what?

  Maybe I could live with a little construction dust.

  When I get home from today’s search, I don’t even flinch when I see Mac slaughtering twenty-two dollars’ worth of grass-fed, antibioticfree, organic beef.

  I don’t worry when he tells me about the mysterious bandaged person lurking in the alley; nor do I frown52 when he informs me of Vienna’s latest antics involving a backhoe and my row of lovingly tended, winterized peony bushes.

  You see, I found our house today.

  Chapter Five

  SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL (HOUSE)

  “Oh, my God, you guys, are you sitting down?”

  As I dash toward their lunch table, Tracey and Kara shoot each other puzzled looks before looking back to me. “Um, Mia?” Tracey asks, drawing out her vowels as though she’s speaking to a dog or a particularly dim child. “Do you need us to get off our chairs and move to the floor, or are you preparing us for some piece of potentially advantageous news?”

  “News! News! News!” I yip, waving my hands in front of my face like I’m trying to cool myself down as I fall into my chair. I’m so excited I can barely form multisyllabic words.

  Kara immediately mirrors my excitement and begins to bounce in her seat. “What? Movie deal? The Persiflage Films thing? What’s happening?”

  “Better! My house! I found my house! I got a house!”

  Tracey rests her hand on my forearm in an attempt to calm me. “Whoa, slow down there, Speed Racer. I saw you yesterday and you hadn’t even mentioned anything worth a second look. Now you’re what? Making an offer? Already under contract? How can that be? You are not Little Miss Snap Decision. I mean, last week you spent twenty minutes at the Whole Foods meat counter debating between the prime rib eyes and the grass-fed filets. But you could pick a house—the biggest investment of your life—in an afternoon? Tell me how this works.”

  My words come rushing out. “Okay, number one, protein is a priority in my life, and number two, because the universe essentially rented a billboard and said, ‘Hey, Mia, this is the place.’ It’s fate. I am destined to live in this house.”

  Kara grabs me for a quick hug. “Yay! I’m so happy for you! Tell me everything . . . starting with how you’re not buying in my parents’ neighborhood!”

  I take a big breath and try to steady myself. “No worries. We’re going to be east-siders, so you’re totally safe. Anyway, we’re up in the Cambs yesterday and Liz’s looking at her MLS printouts. She’d pulled a listing that was outside of our set budget, but she said there was something about it that made her want to take me there.”

  “Pumpkin, that ‘something’ is called ‘commission.’ ”

  I cut Tracey a sideways glance before continuing. “So, like, Liz is all, ‘There’s an interesting notation in the remarks section,’ and I’m like, ‘What?’ and she’s like, ‘Lemme read the whole thing,’ and I’m like—”

  “And you say you have trouble mastering the modern teenage dialect.”Tracey smirks.

  “Ignoring you. Anyway, she goes, ‘I guess this house has a claim to fame. Someone used it in a movie a while back.’ Which, hey, that’s kind of cool, right? Then we look at a bunch of lame and boring houses and I forget she mentioned it. Then we eventually pull up and I see what she’s talking about, and right then and there in the passenger seat of Liz’s Volvo, I shat myself.”

  “Oh, sweetie!” Kara gasps. “Are you okay?”

  “Figurative shat,53 I’m fine.” I take another huge breath and I inadvertently start grinning, remembering yesterday. “I’m actually pretty goddamned great, to tell you the truth. Listen, do me a proper. Close your eyes and picture this. Imagine yourself going down a long, circular driveway to a big brown-and-white Tudor tucked back in the woods. And in the distance? You can hear the lake.” I clear my throat and try to stop beaming.54 “Ahem, big lake.”

  “Mia, that sounds awesome!” Kara gushes. “Particularly since I can just sneak up Whitefish Bay Road to get there and I won’t be spotted.”

  “You really think your parents or their friends are going to have a watch out on the roads you might drive, all in an effort to bust you if you don’t stop by home?” Tracey demands.

  Kara begins to gaze off into the distance with a melancholy expression all over her face. “Without a shadow of a doubt.”

  “Um, hello? Not done! So, you’re imagining this house, yes?” Then I realize I don’t actually have to have my eyes shut during this exercise and I open them. “Now visualize a big picture window. Do you see it?”

  Tracey’s and Kara’s lids are firmly closed, but one of Tracey’s eyebrows is getting dangerously close to raising itself in exasperation.

  “Envision this big window and on the other side is a shiny glass dining table and it’s, um . . . all aglow, as if being lit by candles on a birthday cake. And two people are kind of hunkered over it. Now as you’re taking in this scene you start to hear the opening notes of a really amazing song, like . . . ‘If You Were Here’ by the Thompson Twins.”

  Tracey’s eyes snap open. “You’ve just completely ripped off the final scene of Sixteen Candles.
”

  Kara does the math a couple of beats quicker than Tracey. “No ... no! No way!”

  I say nothing and just nod.

  Kara begins to shriek,“Holy shit, you’re buying Jake Ryan’s house!” causing all the hipsters at Lulu’s to look up from their graphic novels and Vonnegut books. Listen, kids, when you stop trimming your beards like bonsai trees you can judge. Until then, I’ll be the one doling out snide looks, thanks.

  “How is that even possible?”Tracey wonders.

  I reply, “The Jake Ryan character lived in Abington Cambs, so it makes sense that’s where his house would be. John Hughes filmed a ton of stuff up there, so it figures he shot a real place. Plus, all homes go up for sale eventually, right? Why not that house and why not now? My point is that this is the universe’s way of telling me I’m meant to buy Jake Ryan’s house.”

  Tracey persists: “Wasn’t that place kind of a mansion? And it’s close to the water? I’m not sure how to say this, so I’ll just say it—I realize you’re doing well, but I didn’t realize you were doing mansion-on-the-lake well.”

  “Weeeeell,” I drawl.“Remember how the house was so quintessentially eighties?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Kara agrees. “All the chintz and the glass tables and brass accents. That movie’s like a living time capsule.”

  I nod. “Right. The good news is that, um, the eighties never quite ended there. I guess the couple who owned it during filming sold it, and they sold it to someone else, who died shortly afterward, so nothing’s been touched in at least twenty years. A trust owns the place now, and they’ve priced it to sell to anyone who wants to take on the renovations. Mac hasn’t even seen it yet, but when I told him he could tear out drywall, he was totally behind me.”

  “Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm, right. But it’s still a mansion on the lake, and those aren’t cheap,”Tracey persists.

  I begin to squirm a bit in my seat. Sometimes I wish Tracey would stop writing terse police dramas and go back to chick lit. She was a lot less intense back then. “You’d make one hell of an interrogator,” I observe.