by Sophia Renny
“You were just that excited,” Mercy jibed.
“Good thing it was me they called. You would’ve peed your pants.”
“Geez, you two. Knock it off already.” Collette pushed herself off the couch. “I gotta get to my chores. Come back at six for supper, okay?” She included Willa in her directive.
Willa gave a brief nod of her head, muttered her goodbyes and walked out of the house.
Since January, she’d only ventured inside her aunt’s house to take a bath. It had become a weekly ritual. There was just a walk-in shower in the garage apartment. Pauline’s bathroom had an old claw foot tub, deep enough that the water came up to Willa’s chin.
She relished her bath time. She became a connoisseur of minerals and salts, oils, lotions and candles. It was an unfamiliar luxury.
She’d used the kitchen once, but that had ended in disaster. The oven was old and finicky. Every batch of cookies had come out either raw in the center or burned into a hard black lump.
Now she stood at the kitchen window, gazing out at the backyard. The grass was still brown, the tree limbs bare. She pictured her aunt standing in this same spot, looking at this same view. Pauline Cochrane had lived in this house for over sixty years, and Willa had spent only one summer here…
“You look like her when she was your age, you know.”
Willa spun around to find Collette leaning in the doorway. The other woman had a photo album tucked under her arm. “Let’s sit down,” Collette said, nodding towards the breakfast nook. “I want to show you something.”
Silently, Willa followed Collette and sat down across from her. Collette opened the album to the first page and pushed it across the table. Her finger touched the corner of a black and white photo as she spoke. “This was Pauline when she was about five years old. That’s your grandmother beside her. It was taken in front of this house.”
“The house looks different.”
“This was taken before the hurricane of 1938 that almost completely wiped out this area. This house was one of the few that survived. But it took out the carriage house that used to be where the garage is now. And the section here. That was the original kitchen, I think.”
“How old is this house?”
“It was built in 1920. A summer cottage. Pauline said back when she was a little girl you could see the water from here, but the trees and other houses eventually blocked off the view.”
“If my grandfather was so well-to-do, I’m surprised they didn’t have a house closer to the beach.”
“Pauline said her mother was afraid of the water. Her father liked to go sailing and fishing. Her mother liked to garden. This place was a compromise. Good thing, too. I don’t think it would still be standing today if it’d been closer to the beach. And here’s Pauline and her fiancé. This was taken about a month before they were supposed to marry. She was nineteen.”
Willa leaned forward, studying the couple in the black and white photo. They looked so young. They both wore jeans, rolled up at the bottom, and what appeared to be matching plaid shirts. “Was he Italian?”
“Yes. Al Fanara was his name. He was studying to be an architect. She said he had plans to gut this place out, turn it into a real family home. Their wedding would’ve been in September that year. He’d winterized the downstairs, added all that paneling and carpeting. It was supposed to have been a temporary fix until they could afford to remodel. See the paint on her cheek? They were painting the kitchen. The way she used to laugh when she pointed out that paint smudge made me wonder if it was just painting they were doing in the kitchen that day!”
Willa smiled. Her body, which had been held in taut suspension since leaving Collette’s house an hour ago, began to relax. “They were an attractive couple. He looks so tall.”
“Close to six feet. She was about your height then. Five four? He called her his little mouse.”
Collette flipped through a couple pages. “Here are the pictures from her first trip to Europe. She loved to travel. That and working in her garden were her two favorite things. It really wasn’t until the last three years that she spent more time inside this house than out.”
“I remember…” Willa closed her eyes, memories of a long ago conversation lurking in a dusty corner of her mind. “I remember sitting here that night my father and I arrived. We were looking at these same pictures I think. She was talking about…Venice.” Her eyes flashed open. She beamed at Collette. “She said that was her favorite place. I think I remember only because of the way she described a glass factory, the way the glass was blown into different shapes. That fascinated me. I remember her putting her hand on top of my head and telling me that someday she’d take me there.”
“She wanted to take you lots of places.”
Willa grimaced. “My father wouldn’t allow it,” she guessed.
Collette nodded in agreement, her eyes sad. “To the very end, she’d tell me how much she wanted to get you here, away from his control. Even if it was just for a holiday. He wouldn’t let her communicate to you directly. He said you were busy with your important work and couldn’t have the distraction. She just wanted you to have a normal life.”
“Normal is something I’ll never be,” Willa said, giving a harsh, self-deprecating laugh.
Collette tipped her head to one side as she studied Willa. She quirked a smile. “Nope. You’re definitely not normal, whatever that means these days. You’re Willa. And you are very lovely and unique.”
Willa pressed her lips together, tamping down a swift denial. Collette and the girls often said things like that. They had learned her quirky mannerisms pretty quickly, the awkward, clipped way she had of speaking most of the time, the way she’d stare into space, distracted by some random thought or daydream. She’d once overheard two of her students talking about her. “Just shows that brains aren’t everything,” one of them had said. “She’s like an automaton.”
Her odd behavior hadn’t seemed to bother the girls at all. They had taken her into their fold just as she was. There was no pretense with them. They spoke their minds. They teased one another; they argued good-naturedly with one another. They laughed a lot. They cried a little. They were a puzzling, relentless presence in this new life that Willa was learning.
She’d never been comfortable with people her own age. With these fifty-something year old women, she found herself letting down her guard, unworried about what they might think. They were the girlfriends she’d never had.
“She talked about you moving here, you know,” Collette said, recalling Willa from her thoughts. “That was her greatest wish. Towards the end, she’d say things like ‘when Willa gets here’, or ‘be sure to tell Willa’. It was like she was clairvoyant or something.”
“What do you think she would tell me today?”
“She would’ve been jumping up and down with the rest of us girls. She would’ve wanted you to go for it, to have this place done up proper. It’s what her fiancé had always wanted. I think the only reason Pauline didn’t change make any major changes in here was because of her memories of him. Him painting this kitchen. Putting in the paneling and the flooring. But this is your house now. Your memories to start making.”
Willa released a shaky sigh. “I’m not sure about this television thing. The cameras. People watching me. What if I do or say something awkward?”
“Not gonna happen, hon. You’re the smartest girl I know. And pretty, too. The cameras will love you.”
At precisely three o’clock on Monday afternoon, Veronica Myers swept into Pauline’s house like a hurricane. Fortyish, tall, thin, dressed in black from her stiletto knee-high boots to the fedora on her short, fringed black hair, she owned the room. After congratulating Willa on winning the contest, she introduced the young man and woman who’d trailed in behind her. They both looked fresh out of college. “Tiffany is interning as a field producer, Sam as a script writer.”
Willa’s eyebrows shot up. She exchanged a look with Collette, who’d ins
isted on being there for moral support.
“Script writer?” Collette asked. “I thought this was a reality show.”
Veronica winked conspiratorially. “If you only knew just how scripted most of those shows really are…”
“It’s more like a shooting script,” Sam jumped in, earnest and eager, the perfect intern. “I’m just taking notes today that will help us start shaping the narrative.”
“Won’t you take us on a tour?” Veronica asked, already walking down the hallway with a purposeful stride. A great deal of oohing and ahhing ensued as the woman breezed through every room in the house. Willa wondered at her enthusiasm; Veronica sounded like she was touring a Newport mansion.
When they returned to the living room, Veronica made a grand sweeping gesture with both arms. “Willa, this is fabulous,” she raved. “The perfect ‘before’ house. Our viewers are going to love it! This will definitely be the biggest project the guys have tackled so far. Good thing we have all those home show sponsors pitching in, because I’m sure we’ll have to gut this out completely. This will take at least five weeks, maybe six, once we have the permits.”
Willa leaned against a side table, her knees feeling weak. “That long?”
“We’ll need to start shooting next week,” Veronica continued, timetables and deadlines dancing in her eyes as she looked around the room. “The guys will be dividing their time between this project and one in North Providence for the next month. We have to keep to a very tight production schedule. Tiffany, are you writing this down?”
“Yes, Veronica.”
“We want you to meet the guys on camera, not before, Willa. I want viewers to see your genuine reaction to meeting them for the first time. Too bad we couldn’t film your reaction to hearing you won the prize. I hate to ask, but can you fake it? Can you pretend not to have known that you won?”
“I don’t like pretending things,” Willa said, her tone flat.
Collette came to stand beside her, tucking her arm through Willa’s, effectively pulling Veronica’s perplexed appraisal away from Willa to herself. “Who are these guys you’re talking about?” she asked, all bright curiosity.
“The Rossetti brothers. Tony and Joe. They’re Rhode Island natives.” Veronica’s attention refocused on Willa. “Are you from around here, Willa?”
“No. I’ve lived in California all my life.”
“Perfect. We’ll get some shots of you trying to understand what the guys are saying. We’ll have them lay it on thick. Did you note that, Sam?”
“Yes, Veronica.”
Willa stood up straight, folding her arms across her chest. “I have no problem understanding the Rhode Island accent,” she asserted. “I love it, actually.”
She’d met people like Veronica before. Men and women dressed in dark colors, strutting importantly around cold, cavernous rooms filled with cameras and lights. “Can you smile into the camera, Willa?” they prodded. “Come on, sweetheart, don’t be shy. You’re such a pretty little girl.” And her father, pinching her arm, his seething whispers in her ear. “Do what you’re told, Wilhelmina. After everything I did to get you here. Don’t blow it.”
Those memories—memories she thought she’d buried years ago—had kept her tossing and turning restlessly in her bed for the past two nights. She hadn’t wanted to be in front of those cameras back then. She hadn’t really understood what was going on, other than strangers asking her questions—stupid questions that they should have known the answers to already. She remembered writing things on whiteboards at her father’s urging and those strangers clapping their hands and laughing in delight as if she’d done the most amazing thing in the world.
She’d awoken yesterday morning resolved to tell Collette that she’d changed her mind, that Collette or one of the girls should take the prize instead.
But that was something the old Willa would’ve done; the Willa she’d been before her father died. She still didn’t know who the new Willa was. But she knew for certain that she was going to live the remainder of her life on her own terms, controlled by nothing but her own needs and desires.
For the first time since she’d moved to Rhode Island, she found herself excited about the unknown possibilities of her future. Collette and the girls had relentlessly been poking and prying at Willa’s cocoon. Now, here she was, ready for her metamorphosis. It struck her—in a way it never had until now—that she alone had full control over her life. This prospect, the very unfamiliarity of it, both daunted and excited her.
She’d been planning to renovate Pauline’s house anyway. Money wasn’t an issue and never would be. She couldn’t live in the house as it was. It was too cluttered and dark; opening the doors and windows in the summertime wasn’t going to fix that. Winning the contest was just forcing her to do things sooner than she’d anticipated. But maybe she needed that forcing. Maybe she was getting too comfortable in that apartment.
When Collette had pushed her to get out more, putting herself on national television wasn’t exactly what Willa had envisioned! Still, it might be fun.
Fun. That wasn’t something she was much acquainted with. When she thought of the last time she’d truly had fun, her memories carried her back to her seventh summer and the time she’d spent with her aunt in this house.
Ultimately, if she discovered that she wasn’t comfortable in front of the cameras, then she could back out. She’d let Collette step in and have her fifteen minutes of fame while Willa stayed behind the scenes. That was the backup plan Collette and the girls had jokingly devised over several glasses of wine on Saturday night.
Willa felt Collette’s hand squeeze her arm in gentle reassurance. “So, I understand these brothers are filming a new series?” Collette asked Veronica. “What’s it called? Are there any episodes we can watch yet? I think Willa would like to have a better idea of how this is going to work.”
“I’m sorry,” Veronica said, her tone kind but firm. “Nothing’s in the can yet. The network bought six episodes for now. They’ll begin airing in September. This will be the third project so far. Why don’t we sit in the kitchen, and I’ll explain the process?”
Collette kept her arm looped through Willa’s, holding her back as Veronica and her entourage left the room. “You okay, hon?”
Willa gave a brief, harsh laugh. “She’s very aggressive, isn’t she.”
“She’s a New Yorker. That’s just the way most of them are. Don’t mistake it for rudeness. I think she’s genuine. She really seems to like this place.” Collette’s grin was coaxing. “Come on. Let’s listen to what she has to say.”
To Willa’s relief, Veronica explained that the production crew wouldn’t be there every day. “We only come in to get the key shots. Your first meeting and the walkthrough which will happen next week. Then it will take about a week for the guys to put together their designs. We’ll have you come to their office in Providence to shoot that segment. Next will be demolition day. When that happens will depend on how long it takes to get the permits. We always ask the homeowners to pitch in, help knock down a wall or rip out flooring. Our viewers like that. From that point forward, what we choose to shoot will depend on how the story is shaping. The construction crew might come across some dry rot or mold, for example, or some structural impediment that might impact the new design. We’ll get shots of the guys pointing this out to you and your reaction. We’ll do a few confession cam and on-the-fly shots, getting your thoughts and Tony and Joe’s thoughts on how the remodel is going so far. The last day will be the final reveal. All said, across the time it takes to do the renovation, there might be only six to ten days where we’re actually filming anything.”
Collette came over to the table with a tea tray and set it down. “That sounds easy enough to me,” she said as she poured out the tea. “What do you think, Willa?”
Willa hesitated. “I assume this series focuses primarily on the house, right? I’m not an actor. I don’t know how comfortable I’ll be in front of the cameras.
I’ve only seen one or two reality shows, but it seems to me there was some kind of audition or casting process, right?”
Veronica’s expression was candid as she studied Willa’s face. “I won’t lie. We do look at the people, not just the project. It’s great to have homeowners with a vibrant personality, who are excited to be in front of the camera. But sometimes the project is so compelling—like this one will be—that we can work around someone who might be camera-shy. You don’t strike me as being shy though, Willa.” Her look turned probing. “Is there any reason why you wouldn’t want to be on television? You have very striking features. The cameras are going to love you.”
Collette, who’d been hovering near the table, scooted onto the bench next to Willa. “Doesn’t she?” she chirped. “She looks just like her aunt, who was the previous owner of this place.”
“How long did she live here?” Sam asked. His cheeks reddened when Veronica arched one winged eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat nervously. “We just need to know a few things about your background, Willa. For the narrative.”
Willa tensed. “What kinds of things?”
“Oh, nothing too personal,” Veronica soothed. “We don’t reveal the homeowners’ last names on the show. Other than mentioning the town the property is in, we edit out anything that might identify your actual physical address. But we’d like to know more about you. How long you’ve lived here, what you do for a living, etcetera. Sam has a list of questions he’ll review with you once we have all the paperwork signed off.”
“Her aunt lived here for over sixty years,” Collette said. “We have pictures of this place going back to the 1930s. You wouldn’t mind showing those on TV, would you, Willa?”
“That would be fine.”
“Willa is a teacher,” Collette rattled on. “But she’s on sabbatical for a while. That’s all you need to know, right?”
“Er, yes,” Veronica said, clearly bemused by Collette’s directness. She returned her attention to Willa. “As I said, Sam will go over those questions in more detail with you before we start shooting. Are there any other reassurances I can give you, Willa? Please know that I’ve been producing shows like this for years. I take great pride in my work. And our whole crew will take care to ensure that you and this house will be shown in the best light possible. Are you ready to move forward?”
