If You Were Here: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  There’s no sound save for a light breeze ruffling the leaves and the distant hum of a lawn mower. “I’m not saying the house is going to make me a better person. But I’m really happy we didn’t pick a Caroline of a house, all perfect and move-in ready. Maybe getting a Samantha kind of house takes a little more effort up front, but will end up being the better purchase in the long run. I’m going to learn something with the effort, you know? I feel like there’s a real value in viewing this house not as a teardown, but as a place that will absolutely come to life with enough nurturing and love. Or it’s like the kids in The Breakfast Club. Once they got past misleading exteriors and discovered one another’s true selves, everything changed.”

  Even though it’s almost June, the stone bench beneath me is icecold. I shift a bit, relocating to the sunny spot. “Mac? He’s at home right now. He wanted to finish off the room himself. He—this is actually very cute—he wanted me to have the experience of a ‘big reveal,’ like they always do with the homeowners on TV, so he sent me away this morning. I spent quite a bit of time in Starbucks and I knocked out two chapters! Felt so good to have the words flow. I wrote the sweetest thing about how Rebecca tried to bite off Mose’s ear and he stopped her with a first kiss—and . . . You know what? Details don’t matter, because the scene just works and that’s a huge relief.

  “What’s he doing? Oh, he’s moving furniture back in and replacing outlet covers and hanging curtains and stuff. Actually, he said to be home by three o’clock, so I’m taking off now.” I get up and start to walk away. “Oh, my gosh, you’re right; I almost forgot! These are for you, sir. They’re pretty in pink this week, pun intended.” I grab the big bunch of peonies from their spot on the edge of the bench and set them down in front of him.

  “It’s ‘really human of you to listen to all my bullshit.’ Ha, I know, I know: Don’t quote you to you. But in all sincerity, you understand me. You always understood me. So thank you. I’ll see you next week.”

  Mac’s in the kitchen arranging champagne in a bucket when I get home. I ease myself over the downed cabinet and wedge past the boxes of our salvaged dinnerware to get to him.

  “Ooh, festive!” I exclaim.

  “They always have booze at the end of Holmes on Homes, so I wanted to make the big reveal official.” Mac hands me a plastic tumbler of Veuve.We stopped using real plates and glasses when the cabinet fell and the dishwasher was crushed. The kitchen’s our next project, and I’m cautiously optimistic we can do it ourselves.107 We have yet to decide on cabinets and pulls, but that’s neither here nor there, and I’m not letting it mar this celebration.

  Mac glances up from pouring. “How was he today?”

  I respond, “Quiet,” and Mac laughs.

  “I’d be concerned if he weren’t.”

  I recently let Mac in on the secret of my weekly pilgrimage, because it felt weird keeping something from him.

  Ever since we moved to the Cambs, I’ve . . . Okay, this might sound a little strange. . . . I’ve been bringing flowers to John Hughes’s grave. At first I just did the floral equivalent of a dine-and-dash. I’d practically run to his resting spot, dump my bouquet, murmur a quick word, and sprint back to my car. Any further dalliance felt disrespectful.

  It’s common knowledge that Hughes was an extraordinarily private man. Were he alive, I’d never go up to him on the street or interrupt his dinner or say or do anything that might make him uncomfortable. He left Hollywood to return to Illinois, coming back for a quiet, more anonymous life. Even if I’d been presented a chance to introduce myself, I’d likely have not felt worthy enough to take it.

  I’ve been to Jim Morrison’s grave at the Père-Lachaise cemetery in Paris, and the site was total chaos, covered in every bit of detritus you can imagine—flowers, candles, graffiti, liquor bottles—empty and full, plus ladies’ panties and . . . a used condom.108 Crowds of people lined up so they could make “metal hands” while posing for pictures with his headstone, and we had to wait a while to even get close. The whole scene felt less like a place of quiet reflection and solitude, and more like a concert tailgate party, with kids singing and playing guitars, smoking pot, and having drinks.

  I realize fans were simply trying to pay tribute to the life of the Lizard King and the iconic music he created. From everything I’ve ever read, Morrison probably would have loved that almost forty years later, the celebration rages on in his honor. But does that mean he’d have been okay with strangers spray-painting his lyrics on his grave? To me, the mess felt blatantly disrespectful. If fans want to keep his memory alive, wouldn’t they be better served by making sure that each new generation hears his songs and reads his poetry?

  Since I was there in the nineties, I understand guards have been employed to patrol the area. Given Morrison’s tumultuous history with authority figures, I wonder how he’d have felt about that.

  John Hughes’s resting place is the polar opposite. Anyone who’s cared enough about Hughes’s work to seek him out has had selfrestraint not to leave a permanent reminder of his or her presence. The plot is small and unremarkable, tucked under the evergreens in a particularly quiet corner of the cemetery, away from the showy mausoleums and ornately carved headstones closer to the water. You’d never find it unless you knew where to look. No guides shuffle carts of tourists past, and no one’s selling maps to get there. There’s something profound and sacred about his final resting spot, and I find myself lingering longer and longer now.

  I started talking to him on my third visit. The minute I finally allowed myself to say something more than, “Thank you,” the words started spilling out. I couldn’t help it. I told him all about how he inspired me, and how, if I could provide teenagers with an iota of the kind of solace he gave Jess and me growing up, I’d consider myself a success.

  I talked about how I wouldn’t have a career without him. Then I apologized if I sounded like I was sucking up, but I truly felt like he had just as much cultural influence as Jim Morrison did, and how I was really glad none of Hughes’s fans left him Mardi Gras beads or cheesy stuffed animals.

  Anyway, perhaps it’s a product of my overactive imagination, but I swear I feel his spirit when I’m there, because I’m always buoyed and inspired after I leave. I bet it’s not coincidental that I do my best writing after a visit.

  Or maybe it’s just that I’m so prone to keeping everything bottled up that I feel better once I let it all out.

  When I saw Sixteen Candles for the first time, I wasn’t even a teenager yet. I wonder how I’d have felt knowing that movie would have such an influence on my life and career almost thirty years later?

  “Mia?”

  I snap back to attention. “Oh, sorry. Zoned out for a second.”

  Mac gives me a glass and takes my hand to help me over the rubble. “Are you ready to see your Fabulous! New! Master! Suite!” he says in his best HGTV-host imitation.

  “Yay! Yes!” The big reveal’s always my favorite part.

  You know why I love HGTV? It’s not just that I get a peek into other people’s lives. It’s that everyone’s always thrilled with the end result, whether they’re redecorating an unfortunate room, selling a house, or cleaning up another contractor’s mess. I live for a happy ending, and HGTV is perpetually upbeat and optimistic. The shows are all about problem solving, not drama creating.

  I used to be a huge Trading Spaces fan in the early days, and I was always so upset when the homeowners weren’t happy. Sometimes their disappointment was justified—like the time Doug painted a newly refinished hardwood floor white,109 or Hildi stapled something like ten thousand silk flowers to a bathroom wall. Seriously, can you imagine what a disaster that must have been to live with, let alone try to remove? The staples probably began to oxidize after the first shower, and I’m loath to picture how much dust and moisture those flowers trapped.

  What infuriated me was when the homeowners would throw a fit over perfectly lovely rooms. I hated how, even though their friends and th
e designers and carpenters spent two days slaving away in their house, they couldn’t get past how they “hate brown!” or “that’s not where we keep the coffee table!” Sometimes they’d get all pissed off about the show’s using lower-priced materials, even though the whole point of Trading Spaces was to demonstrate how to make improvements on a budget. Mac always knew what I was watching when he’d hear me shout stuff like, “If you want Brazilian cherry and not MDF,110 pay for it yourself!”

  Anyway, it’s reveal time here, and I am, in fact, ready to see my Fabulous! New! Master! Suite! “Did you want me to wear a blindfold ?” I ask Mac.

  “No, and if I did, I’d make sure we were up the stairs first.” Oh. Good point. The dogs dart in and out between us, and we have to step over Mac’s cache of paint and stain cans and around the wall o’ tools to get to the doorway on the second floor. “Ready?”

  “Ready!” I clamp my eyes shut while Mac swings open the door.

  When I open I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing. I mean, I’ve been here for every step of the process and I know the room intimately. Trust me: I’ve shed DNA in this space. That’s the spot on the floor where the rusty nail punched right through my shoe and into my foot when I was sanding.111 That’s the wall where I lost most of my knuckle skin wrestling off cherub-covered wallpaper that had been affixed with what was clearly the kind of glue used to hold airplanes together. That’s the closet door that claimed most of my pinkie nail, and over there’s the window that could easily do double duty as a guillotine.

  But now? I’m transported to a place that’s got the same kind of glow and luminosity as the inside of a seashell. The pickled floors are a cool, clean contrast to the multihued cornflower blue rug with its bold golden flowers and milk glass green swirls. The bed looks all fresh and inviting and squashy with the down-filled duvet, and the canopy curtains around it are white and billowy. This room is nestled next to a leafy old maple, and the view makes me feel like I’m in a tree house for grown-ups.

  Unbeknownst to me, Mac refinished my rummage sale antique dresser with the dry sink and he shined up the copper lining. There are scores of creamy white roses in reclaimed glass jars all over the room and tons of our black-and-white wedding photos.

  Instead of linen, Mac suggested we go with lighter drapes for the coming summer, and the fabric he chose is unstructured and ethereal. Mac strategically placed candles that smell like honeysuckle and orange blossom around the room, too. On the hope chest at the foot of the bed, he’s placed a woven tray laden with my favorite cheeses, candied nuts, and succulent grapes.112

  The bathroom is equally inviting, with sparkly tiles and paint that’s all Zen and the same pearly blue as the horizon at sunset.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  I’m so enamored that it takes me a moment to find the proper words. “Oh, honey—I’m blown away. We did it! I can’t believe we did it. I’m not going to lie to you: It was touch-and-go there for a hot minute, but this? This is spectacular! This is magic! This could be in a magazine! Babcia’s going to love staying in here, and then we’re going to spend many long, happy years in here.”

  Mac is beaming. “This room is tangible proof that we can do it ourselves.”

  I throw myself around him and kiss him with all my might before flitting off to inspect each corner of the room. “I should have never doubted you. I’m so sorry I’ve been a pill. I should have listened to you and trusted your instincts. Forgive me?”

  “Maybe, if you come back over here.” Mac’s sitting on the bed and motioning toward me, and I quickly comply.

  “I’m all over it, Mr. MacNamara.” We both lie back in each other’s arms and I start to kiss his neck.

  “Aw, shit, there’s one small flaw,” Mac says, gazing up at a small paint imperfection in the ceiling.

  “It can wait,” I insist.

  “No, it’ll make me crazy. Lemme just get this right here. . . .” Mac stands on the bed and pokes at the small outcropping, which is like a bubble or a balloon.

  Years from now when we retell this story—and we will be retelling this story—I’m sure our recollection will go the way of any fish tale. The amount of water dispersed will likely swell from buckets to barrels, and the velocity at which it gushes down on me is prone to be exaggerated, sped up from a languid pour to a rushing river. And the ants that are washed down within that stagnant, brackish liquid will magically morph from carpenter size to Australian bulldog variety, maybe even with pincers and large enough to cast a shadow.

  But right here, right now, and before my hands can inevitably grow farther and farther apart as I demonstrate that legendary fish’s length, I can tell you one thing: I hop out of every ant-covered, sopping-wet piece of clothing faster than ORNESTEGA could imagine.

  “Hi, this is Mia MacNamara, and I got your number off of Angie’s List . . . . I understand you have twenty-four-hour service? . . . Super . . . Yeah, we need you right now . . . . Uh-huh . . . Bring a lot of poison. Buckets. Barrels. Whatever you’ve got. The address is 1407 . . .”

  “Hey, it’s Mia. Guess what, smarty-pants? You were wrong. We don’t have Formosan subterranean termites. We have Eastern subterranean termites. Drywood, too. Oh, and at least three million carpenter ants. We have to fumigate. Call me back on my cell. And if you could keep the gloating to a minimum, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Hi, I’m hoping to book a couple of reservations. The first one is a standard room, right now for two people. You’re dog-friendly, yes? . . . Cats, too? . . . Great . . . Uh-huh, two nights under ‘Mia MacNamara’ . . . Right, thanks . . . The second one is for June fourth through June seventh . . . . All you have left is the presidential suite? How much is that? . . . Ouch! . . . No, I was unaware that was Abington Cambs College graduation weekend . . . . Of course I realize prices reflect demand . . . . No problem . . . The name on that reservation is Josefa Grabowski . . . . Um, I’ll be using my AmEx for both. The number is 3750 . . .”

  “Hello, sir. Lovely day out here; hope you’re enjoying it. Have a seat on the bench? Don’t mind if I do. Went with the white peonies today, because I thought you might want to mix it up a bit after getting so many shades of pink ones. Anyway, do I have a week to share with you. Remember how I said neither balloons nor bubbles were inherently threatening? Yeah? I stand corrected.”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE GOLABKI CLUB

  “Thanks for coming, and we look forward to seeing your estimate!” I close the door behind the contractor, gingerly trying to keep the knob from falling out again.

  Mac and I have spent the past few days interviewing general contractors, because the extent of the termite damage is far too much for us to take on by ourselves. Apparently those ravenous little bastards have been going at all the wood in our house so long and hard that we have to install new subflooring in some areas. We also have to replace floor joists and reinforce support beams.

  FYI? I don’t actually look forward to seeing the estimates for these repairs, despite Mac’s rejoicing in his vindication when he found out weakened floors were the reason he kept dropping toilets into my office.

  Yes. Because having to take out a second mortgage because of structural damage is totally cause for celebration.

  The good news is, we’re really enthusiastic about everyone we’ve interviewed, and we’ve narrowed the field down to three contractors who are the most top-notch. Not only do these three all have the highest ratings from the Better Business Bureau and are Best of Angie’s List, but each one just slayed us with how they answered the interview questions.

  We found an amazing resource on the Internet that advised us to lob a few “question grenades” during our fact-finding process, like whether their business was involved with any charity work. I was so impressed to learn how all of Bob’s Builders employees get two paid weeks off each year to work for Habitat for Humanity. When I checked professional references for Larry Lambert Homes, I had to laugh when one of his suppliers was all, “Wait. L
ambert’s got an opening in his schedule? Tell him I need a sunroom!” And I loved how organized Miranda—owner of Do It Herself, Inc.—was, especially when I snuck out to take a peek in her truck.113 Plus, she doesn’t use any subcontractors and she’s a huge proponent of going green. When she expressed her passion for sustainable building materials, I could suddenly envision a kitchen filled with bamboo flooring and agrifiber-based cabinets.

  I tell Mac, “We’ll have a tough decision on our hands. All of them seem completely competent, they each have impeccable references, and when I think of people I wouldn’t mind having in my house for the next month, I’d be hard-pressed to find fault with any of them.” Bob was just salt of the earth, Larry was hilarious, and Miranda was a globe-trotting Peace Corps volunteer before she started her company and she seems like she’s got tales to tell.

  Mac agrees. “Our decision will ultimately come down to price. All things being equal, we’re going to go with the lowest-cost provider.”114

  I collect our dirty Starbucks cups and napkins, tossing all the refuse in the trash before I catch myself. Oh, shit, if Miranda works here, I’ll have to be a lot better about remembering to recycle.

  I wipe off the perpetually gritty table and tell Mac, “Honey, we’ve got about twenty minutes to get ready to go to the airport, so if you’ve got to use the bathroom, I suggest you go now.”