The View from Here

by Hannah McKinnon

  Of course, she had forgotten the house and the party over the years, but not the feeling it had filled her with that summer day. So, on one dark drizzling autumn day when the boys were both sick with head colds and she’d been driving her Jeep Cherokee up and down the hills of Lenox in a desperate attempt to usher them to sleep in their car seats, she’d crested the hill and seen the For Sale sign, she’d slammed on the brakes. Both boys jerked awake, wailing in sleep-deprived protest. “It’s okay,” Phoebe had cooed as she stared back at the house from her childhood memory. Because, suddenly, it was.

  The cottage was no longer crisp or tidy. It had the sad appearance of having not been lived in for some time, its lawn overgrown and its paint weathered. But still—there was the stone chimney. And the faded red door. And the sweeping view of the water. The memory of the beaming new mother clutching her bright new baby rushed back to Phoebe as she stared through the swish of her windshield wipers at the house. All it needs is a family, she thought. Like us.

  She’d raced straight home and called the Realtor. While Rob and the boys were traversing the soccer field at practice the next morning, unbeknownst to him, Phoebe was exploring every inch of the creaky old cottage. By the time he came home, she was waiting for him in the kitchen, with a shy smile and a copy of the listing in hand.

  “I’ve found our dream house!” she announced.

  Rob halted in the entryway, one hand on each boy. All three were knee-high in mud splatters. “I didn’t know we were looking for one.”

  “Before you say anything, please take a look. It’s a big place that needs a little work.” In truth, it was a little place that needed big work. She thrust the listing under Rob’s nose.

  Rob’s eyes had skittered right past the image and down to the listing price, where they widened with amusement. “Did you win the lottery?” He laughed. “We don’t have that kind of coin.”

  “But we do!” Phoebe insisted. She’d done her homework and prepared a small speech. “The Realtor says the market has improved. If we sell our place, we’ll have plenty to deposit on the lake house. And extra to fix it up. Just the way we like it!”

  “But I like this house,” he said, tugging Patrick’s wet uniform over his head.

  “No, you don’t. You just don’t realize it because you’re always at work. I live here with the kids day in and out. We’re busting at the seams.”

  Newly freed from their soaked soccer gear, the twins bolted away and up the stairs. There was a thundering overhead and the kitchen ceiling shook. Phoebe gritted her teeth.

  “Is this about the Warrens?” Rob asked.

  Phoebe prickled. Don and Victoria Warren lived next door. Not to be confused with Vicky. Or Tori. “Vic—tor—ee—uh,” she’d told Phoebe the first time they’d met. “As in the queen. I don’t do nicknames.”

  Don and Vic-tor-ee-uh had recently remodeled their entire house, from foundation to chimney top. Even before their long and noisy renovation Phoebe had struggled with what Rob called “neighborly bonds” with the Warrens. They were the kind of people who had their house decked out, within a twinkle light of being visible from space, for Christmas. And all before midnight on Thanksgiving. The decorative extravaganza kept Phoebe and Rob’s bedroom illuminated like a Walmart parking lot. But only until the twelfth day of Christmas, Victoria assured her. Which only served to piss Phoebe off further. What kind of person kept track of when it was the twelfth day of Christmas?

  They hosted lavish parties with ridiculous themes. Like their annual Kentucky Derby party (“A soiree!” Vic-tor-ee-uh had trilled), where they served only mint juleps and made everyone don fancy little hats. Phoebe liked wine. And she loathed hats. What she loathed most was attending parties where people were required to do anything other than shower and show up. For her, as the mother of toddler boys, those two things, themselves, were reason to celebrate.

  Rob, being the better sport, felt otherwise. “Come on, honey. Surely you can put on a hat for one party.”

  “No. No, I cannot.” Phoebe was more from the Robert Frost school of thinking. The whole “Good fences make good neighbors” thing was written for people like the Warrens. She doubted Robert Frost ever had to don a Kentucky Derby hat for a “soiree.”

  “They have a thing for holidays,” Rob had said, with a resigned shrug. “Think of them as jolly.”

  Phoebe had rolled her eyes. “Jolly assholes.”

  Just last weekend the Warrens had hosted an elaborate open house. A “Welcome Summer!” gathering, they’d called it, which just happened to coincide with the completion of their renovation. The handsome Dutch Colonial had been completely gutted, along with, in Phoebe’s opinion, much of its original character. The old brick fireplaces had been covered up and replaced with a floating gas wall insert of turquoise glass and metal. The antique hardwoods were ripped out, replaced by a cold gray tile meant to look like driftwood. Phoebe had dragged her best friend, Anna Beth, with her to the party.

  “Doesn’t it feel coastal?” Vic-tor-ee-uh had crooned, as she led a gaggle of nosy neighbors room to room. Never mind that they were a hundred miles from the nearest coast. Anna Beth had grabbed Phoebe’s hand as they detoured sharply from the planned route and into a brass and marble–appointed powder room that was more befitting a czarina than a stay-at-home mother. “Welcome Summer gathering, my ass,” Anna Beth hissed as she slid the pocket door closed behind them. “This is a smug ride on a show pony.”

  They’d spent the rest of the “tour” doubled over in giggles, trying to flush the hands-free smart toilet by wiggling their rear ends over the bowl, until someone knocked on the door.

  Now Phoebe gazed back at Rob with what she hoped was masked ire. What was he insinuating? The Warrens’ house was ridiculous. All Phoebe wanted was a house with a separate bedroom for each boy and a yard to play in. And maybe more room. The lake house would afford them all of that. Plus the lake.

  “Honey. Hear me out. Our lives are crazy busy. School, kids, work. Forget paying bills and mowing the lawn and trying to keep up with cleaning this dump.”

  “Dump?” It was Rob’s turn to prickle.

  “This house is our hub. It has to function, or we can’t.”

  Rob stood up slowly. “Maybe we can work on the kitchen a little. I know it’s dated, but it still works. Mostly.”

  “Right. And the last thing you cooked in here was…?”

  Rob held up his hands. “All right. But I don’t think now is the time.”

  “You’re up for that promotion,” she reminded him. “You’ve been groomed and waiting your turn in line for years. Dan said so.”

  Dan was Rob’s boss at the marketing firm. He’d been hinting at moving Rob up in recent months, and a position had finally opened. Interviews were already underway, but Dan had told Rob off the record that it was just a formality. The job was his if he wanted it.

  “Then we should wait until I get the job.”

  “The house is a steal. It won’t be there if we wait!”

  “Phoebe, I love your gusto. But this feels rushed. Maybe we should let things unfold and see what happens.”

  Phoebe glanced around. At the boys’ artwork obscuring the dated fridge. At the coats spilling out of the hall closet. The tiny living room, crammed with toys.

  “I’m not built like you,” she said, fighting back tears. “I’ve loved this house since I was a little girl. I can’t just sit back and let things unfold according to the goddamned universe.”

  Rob went to her and pulled her against him. “I know. Indeed, you are your own force within it.” He sighed into her hair, and she felt the mix of exasperation and warmth in it. “This house is really the one?”

  She pulled back to see if he was serious. “It is.” Then, “Wouldn’t it be nice to host the family at Thanksgiving?”

  Rob’s nose twitched. “Your family?”

  She kissed the tip of it. “Never mind. Friends. Neighbors.”

  “You hate the neighbors.”


  She smiled. “I hate everybody.”

  * * *

  The next day they went to see it. Rob loved the view. He did not love the improvements that would need to be made. Or the fact they’d have to sell their house quickly to make it work. “It’s virtually the same size as our current home,” he argued.

  “Yes, but it has one more bedroom for the boys. And look at that.” She pointed out the picture window at the lake below. He couldn’t argue that. Phoebe made an appointment with an inspector and a contractor. Rob made an appointment with their financial advisor.

  On paper it could work. But only just. “You don’t have any wiggle room,” the advisor warned, as he reviewed the proposed cost spreadsheet with them. He set his pencil down. “Look, renovating an old house can be like opening a can of worms.”

  Rob didn’t like the sound of this either. There were too many opportunities for things to go wrong.

  Phoebe did not share the same fear. “Let’s not forget, I banked my last year’s salary before the boys were born. We’ve been able to live largely off of your salary without touching mine. We’ll create a budget and stick to it. If things go awry, there’s always that cushion.”

  It was true. In five years they’d only dipped into Phoebe’s set-aside work income once, and that was when the Jeep needed repairs. But it didn’t mean Rob wanted to lean on it.

  “Phoebe, we’re financially secure. Remember the years of lying awake wondering how we’d pay off grad school loans and buy groceries? I don’t ever want to go back to that.”

  “Neither do I, and we won’t. Worst case, I go back to work. Don’t you see, this is what we’ve been talking about. Getting out of our starter and into our forever home. This is the house we’d have for the rest of our lives.”

  Rob groaned, but she went on. “Picture it: Birthday parties where the kids can swim with their friends right out of their own backyard. Christmases with the whole family over, followed by ice-skating on the lake. Then graduations. Who knows, maybe someday a wedding…”

  Rob looked at her then, at the stars in her eyes. He couldn’t deny it. This was what he loved about his wife. He was pragmatic, and she was the dreamer. Between the two they struck a balance. “So, we’re really going to do this?”

  It was a question she’d never forget being asked. Because Rob was in. Despite the risks and the unknowns, he was on board. For the briefest moment she waffled.

  “If we don’t, I think I’ll always regret it.”

  “All right, then.”

  * * *

  They’d spilled the good news to her family over their weekly Sunday night dinner. Rob let Phoebe do the talking. To her consternation, only Jake seemed to like the idea. “I get it,” he said. “It’s your little place in the big world. Why not love where you live?”

  Predictably, Perry had shaken his head over his plate of chicken piccata. “You’re flipping a house? Do you know the financial risks associated?”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. “No one’s flipping anything. We’re buying a fixer-upper.”

  At which Perry mumbled, not quite under his breath, “No risk there.”

  Phoebe was grateful when Amelia elbowed him. Twice. “We’ll live in the cottage as we renovate it,” Phoebe explained.

  Their mother, Jane, went straight to the kids. “What about the boys? All that dust and debris! Just think about the mess. Can you really live in those conditions?”

  Phoebe had pushed her plate away. “This is for the boys. And it won’t be forever. You guys have to see it. You’ll love it.”

  But the family wasn’t done.

  “Have you had it inspected?”

  “What if you tear off the siding and find rot?”

  “Or mold?”

  “I’ve heard slate roofs are harbingers of mold!”

  “Have you even checked the roof?”

  All the while, her father sat back in his chair, withholding comment. Phoebe locked eyes with him, waiting. Edward almost always championed her ideas.

  Finally, he cleared his throat. “What about the foundation? Now, that’s the first place you should look. I know a good contractor… Honey, what was the name of the boy who went to school with Jake whose father had a Rottweiler he used to let roam the golf course? You know who I’m talking about? I think his name was Rudy.”

  “Yes, yes. But wasn’t that the dog’s name?”

  And then everyone started in again.

  Phoebe looked around the table at all the uncooperative faces that belonged to her.

  “I don’t know why I tell you people anything.” She pushed her plate away.

  Grandma Elsie, having finished her soup, set a trembling hand atop Phoebe’s and gripped it. “Old houses are a lot of work. But…” She turned to the rest of them, as if to impart some gold thread of wisdom.

  Everyone quieted.

  “But what, Nana?” Phoebe prompted.

  Elsie narrowed her eyes. “But I don’t see dessert. Where did that cheesecake get to?”

  * * *

  Now, having sold one house, bought another, and survived six months into the renovation, Phoebe squealed into the preschool parking lot in the nick of time. The boys were in good spirits, each clutching a wet finger painting. Phoebe set the paintings on the backseat as she helped the boys into their car seats and held back a curse when one painting slipped, leaving a trail of blue across the black leather.

  “I’m hungry!” Patrick announced.

  “Macaroni?” Jed asked.

  Phoebe hopped in the driver’s seat. “Don’t forget the cheese,” she said, and both boys cheered. Ah, the simple victory of two toddlers climbing into the car with smiles instead of tears!

  As she pulled into their driveway, Phoebe smirked with pleasure. The cottage was under renovation, she was still speaking to her family, and just as she’d predicted they’d thus far survived the deadly dust and debris. She swept through the door on the heels of the boys, dumping her paint store samples on the entryway table. Past the original fieldstone fireplace and across the honey-hued pine floors. (No matter that they were mottled with scratches and stains from the years, her contractor Dave had assured her they could be salvaged!) The contractors were done for the day, having finished replacing the windows on the back of the house. But the smell of freshly sawn wood still lingered in the air, and Phoebe tipped her head back with pleasure. Was she the only woman who wished it could be bottled and worn as cologne?

  In the kitchen she pulled a saucepan from the cupboard and set a box of macaroni on the orange Formica countertops. The room was a screaming homage to the seventies, a visual onslaught of dated appliances and peeling floral wallpaper that clung as stubbornly to the decade as it did to the walls. But Phoebe could imagine a family crowding in there, reaching for a pitcher of Kool-Aid in the fridge, grabbing some Jiffy Pop off the stove before racing down to the beach. She had plans to make their own twenty-first-century family memories. Walls would be knocked down. New cabinetry installed. Fresh paint. Sparkling stainless steel appliances. All while salvaging the original character—the leaded glass windows, the exposed beams, and one of her favorite touches: the rear Dutch door. She opened it now, stepping out to the stone patio. The macaroni and cheese could wait.

  “Come on, boys,” she said. “Let’s go see if we can spot that mother duck and her ducklings.” Phoebe trailed her children down the steps to the edge of the lake and stood squinting into the high sun. Both boys bent down and began splashing. From somewhere out on the lake came the thrum of a motorboat. It was the cusp of summer. The possibilities were endless.

  Olivia

  When she stepped outside, she found that the late-day haze had lifted, and the June humidity had given way to a gentle breeze. She tilted her face to it. Summer had barely begun, and it was teasingly moody. Rainy mornings sizzled away beneath a vibrant sun. A perfect afternoon could be interrupted by a thunderstorm, driving unsuspecting boaters off the water, only to lure them back to the dock moments later with a d
ewy rainbow. Olivia liked this about the New England lake region. It was temperamental. Just like her father in his New York kitchen, she mused. One’s patience was almost always rewarded when the storm ceased.

  The old barn door squeaked on its rollers as Olivia slid it ajar. In the cool recess of the studio, she hesitated, allowing her eyes to adjust. She’d been working as an apprentice and assistant for only the past year, but already this place felt like home. Her boss, the famous sculptor Ben Rothschild, had renovated the barn interior so that it operated as a four-season studio, and though it was still rustic in aesthetic and composition, the space was lofty and welcoming. She strode across the concrete floor, where jute grass rugs defined the separate spaces. Along the sides of the wall were work benches, which had been converted from horse stalls back when Ben and his wife, Marge, bought it in the 1970s. Then it had stalled eight horses, a tack room, and a hayloft. Now the only tools of trade were hand chisels, cloths, and sponges. The loft had been converted to an open-air office space. Downstairs housed the work area, large tables holding various works in progress. Ben’s medium was clay, though he also dabbled in bronze sculpture. At the moment, he was preparing for an autumn gallery tour with his latest series, a study in colonial-era farm animals, titled Beasts of Burden. As such he was finishing two large pieces. One was an equine sculpture, a mare poised in a swath of grass. Her neck was arched and her ears were pricked forward, inquisitively. Even in stillness, she looked flexed, as if she could flee at any moment. Ben understood horses. Marge was a lifelong dressage rider. Ben had told Olivia that before he attempted the sculpture, he’d tagged along with her to the equestrian stable in Roxbury where his wife boarded her horse, Hercules. “You cannot capture a living creature in sculpture until you are familiar with the way it moves. Watching Marge ride Hercules is like listening to music in three dimensions.”