The View from Here

by Hannah McKinnon

  “This is my recommendation. Make your kitchen island a centerpiece. We just love this Amish company who does stainless steel island tops.”

  Phoebe blinked. “Oh, okay.” The Amish had gone contemporary? When had that happened?

  “But of course, that all depends on appliances. Have you chosen them yet?” Thérèse indicated the display behind her, where a sixty-inch Viking dual fuel oven rested in the center like a sphinx. A behemoth appliance with an even larger price tag. Rob would die. “Of course, I also recommend Wolf. If you’d prefer.”

  What Phoebe would prefer, she suddenly realized, was to get out of there. In mere discussion alone, she’d likely amassed a financial tally that toppled the entire house renovation budget. And Thérèse hadn’t even gotten her out of the kitchen yet.

  “Um, no. We haven’t. Yet.” She glanced at her watch. The boys! She had thirty minutes to drive the forty minutes to the preschool. As overcaffeinated as she was over budget, Phoebe leapt up. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m late to pick up my kids.”

  The serene stretch of Thérèse’s forehead wrinkled, but only for a second. “Of course. Let me print out your cost estimate sheet, and we’ll set up a time to reconvene.” With a few quick clicks on her laptop, a gentle hum from a nearby printer alerted Phoebe to the incoming assessment of damage. Thérèse disappeared around a corner and returned with a stapled sheaf of papers. Phoebe tucked it in her purse, but not before she glanced at the bottom line. Sixty-eight thousand dollars.

  “Of course, this is for floor, counter, and backsplash finishes only. We’ll have to reconvene to make appliance selections.” She nodded at the amassed pile of samples between them. “Can I help you carry these out?”

  Phoebe balked. To take these samples meant she had to come back. Reconvene, as Thérèse said. The thought of which was almost as dreadful as showing all of this to Rob.

  This had been a terrible mistake. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, reminding her she had to go. And that she hadn’t taken one damn photo for her “idea board.” “I so appreciate your help, this has been very inspiring. But I’d like to take a day or two and think about what we discussed, first.” She stood.

  Thérèse looked stricken. Phoebe didn’t blame her; she’d spent almost two hours with her and the woman probably worked on commission. “But what about your samples?”

  “They’re all lovely. Like you!” Phoebe forced a smile. Too far, that last comment. “But I’m late, so I’ll call to set up another time.”

  She swept her purse over her shoulder and offered Thérèse a harried wave before making her escape. Alone, without her samples, she dashed through the maze of display kitchens, a faint sweat of relief breaking out on her forehead. Back through the contemporary, on past the farmhouse and the industrial, halting only briefly to run her hands a final time over the cool gray surface of the Calcutta. It was cold to the touch. Like the look her husband would give her when she shared the cost estimate sheet with him.

  Shuddering, Phoebe hurried out of the marble oasis and for the front door, still clutching the bumblebee tile against her chest. Before hurtling through the door into the heat of the day, she had a final thought: Where was that tinkling waterfall sound coming from?

  * * *

  After the wasted trip to Fairfield Designs, Phoebe realized she needed to set some boundaries when interacting with tradespeople and salespeople. “It’s all business,” Rob reminded her. “Salespeople will try to distract you and sell you more than what you need. It’s their job.” But the boundaries also applied to herself. The possibilities of any given choice were endless. Take tile: Stone or ceramic? Glass or porcelain? Traditional or contemporary? God help her when it came to patterns, sizes, colors. She spent hours on Pinterest, Houzz, and building sites. Eyes glazed over, she’d stumble into bed past midnight, her brain awash with blue light and the noise of a thousand different options, not one of which she’d decided on. Rob, due to the frustrating mix of his easygoing nature and unavailability, deferred to her. Which was no help at all. “Look at it this way,” her friend Anna Beth said. “You like to be in charge. This way you don’t have to compromise.”

  She was right. But Phoebe would’ve welcomed some input. At this rate it could take her years to design one kitchen backsplash, let alone a floor plan for the entire first floor. The renovation was not even halfway complete, and each day there were more decisions to tackle. Moving forward, she’d have to limit herself if there was any hope of managing the decisions coming her way.

  When the electrical bids came in later that week, Phoebe was determined to get it right. She would not repeat the Fairfield Designs field trip disaster.

  Dave steered her toward John Glazer, who ran a second-generation family electric business. He was about her age, handsome, and rather shy, but within mere minutes Phoebe had gleaned that she knew his wife from a Mommy and Me music class. When she asked after his youngest child, John warmed up immediately.

  Phoebe trailed him through the house nodding and listening as he explained lighting choices. He advised that she only do a few can lights in the kitchen, as they were the most costly. Before leaving, they reviewed the time frame and budget.

  “How much do we have to work with?” John asked. Phoebe liked that he turned to her, not Dave, as many of the other subs seemed to do.

  She referred to her notes. “Ten thousand,” she told him.

  John raised his eyebrows. “Wow. For fixtures? That’s healthy.”

  Phoebe was ecstatic to hear this. She’d only done a little research on fixtures so far, but that amount should stretch far and wide. She might even have something left over to put into the kitchen.

  “Let me clarify. I mean including labor,” Dave added. He turned to her. “Which only leaves about three thousand for fixtures.”

  Her face must have fallen.

  “We can make it work,” John assured her. He gave her the name of an electrical supply wholesale store two towns over. “They’re reasonable and they know their stuff.”

  But when Phoebe had driven the forty-five minutes to get there and stood in line behind a slew of loud contractors (all men), her hopes dwindled. Apparently it was a contractor wholesale store, and everyone in line (in work boots) was there to pick up large orders. As she stood in front of a guy who she was pretty sure was checking out her rear end, she tried to focus on her list. Schoolhouse-style nickel pendants. Flush-mount fixtures for the hallways. She glanced around uncertainly. There didn’t seem to be a showroom anywhere in sight. When it was her turn, the guy at the cash register took one look at her with her Starbucks coffee cup and handwritten list and instantly looked put out.

  Phoebe stole a peek at his nametag. “Hi, Ron. My electrician sent me here. I’d like to look around the showroom at options.”

  “For?”

  “Lighting?” As soon as the word left her mouth, she flushed deeply. The guy behind her chuckled out loud.

  Ron stared back at her impatiently. “I kind of figured that.”

  “What I mean is, I need to pick out fixtures. I’m renovating a house. Is there a showroom I can see?”

  “Look, we’re not Home Depot, honey. We supply electrical to licensed contractors we have service relationships with, not private customers.”

  “I’m sorry, I was told you have a showroom.”

  Ron glanced impatiently at the clock. “We do, but it’s in the next building. And as you can see we’re pretty busy filling orders this morning. Maybe you can come back with your electrician.”

  “But he’s the one who sent me,” she said hopefully. “John Glazer from Litchfield Electric?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Phoebe could feel the snickering expressions around her, and she had the urge to flee. It was the inverse experience of Fairfield Designs. She’d gone from a sleek cappuccino-pushing saleswoman who wanted to sell her the Taj Mahal of kitchens, to a surly chauvinist in scuffed Timberlands who didn’t want to sell her a damn thing.

/>   Ron looked past her at the next guy in line. “You should probably come back when you know what you need.”

  But Phoebe did not budge. She set her list down and waited until Ron looked her in the eye. His eyes were flat with indifference. Phoebe had not sent the twins to school for an extended day and driven almost an hour for this. “I know what I need, Ron. I need eight LED can lights for my kitchen ceiling, which is ten feet tall. But not the new construction variety. I need the remodel type, which I understand is for a prebuilt ceiling. It needs to be IC, insulation contact. Wouldn’t want to risk an electrical fire.” She glanced at her list, trying to keep the quake out of her voice. “And I’d like all that with a baffle trim. Better to reduce the glare. Did you get all that? You may want a pen.”

  The guy behind her let out a low whistle. “Guess she knows what she wants, Ron.”

  Ron narrowed his eyes. Five minutes later, Phoebe was in the showroom with a smiling gray-haired woman named Ruth. Together they selected recessed lighting for the kitchen and a nice-looking bronze semi-flush-mount ceiling light for the hallways and common spaces. But the feature lighting, like bathroom sconces and kitchen island pendants, were well out of her price bracket.

  Back at home, Phoebe pulled her desk chair up to her laptop. Three hours later she’d found a discount chandelier on one popular home design website she’d discovered and a set of brushed nickel industrial-style pendants for the kitchen on another site. At a box store site she found outdoor lighting, from gooseneck lanterns over the garage to floodlights. Even after one splurge on Restoration Hardware for a cast-iron sconce set for the master bath, she still had three hundred dollars left in her budget. The next morning she proudly presented her printed orders to John and Dave.

  Dave scrutinized the tally. “Are you sure you got everything? What about the bedrooms? And the upstairs bathrooms?” Phoebe pointed to her selections for both.

  John high-fived her. “Not bad.”

  Dave, whose reserve Phoebe was used to by now, offered her a smile. “Bravo.”

  Phoebe was thrilled. It wasn’t just the outward progress on the house that she relished. There was something about doing the work, herself, that invigorated her. When she wasn’t on-site to meet with the revolving door of contractors, or at Lenox Town Hall applying for permits and scheduling inspections, she was in her car driving up and down the corridor of Fairfield County in search of fixtures and finishes. It was endless. But she loved the pace and the change of focus that came with each day. Even the setbacks were invigorating: the snap decisions that had to be made, the sense of accomplishment when something gone awry had been wrangled back on course. Construction was a lot like motherhood: ripe with unknowns. There were sky-scraping highs that made you giddy and breathless, and avalanche-like lows that left you buried. And somewhere in the middle that maternal scrap of hope that it would all prove rewarding. For the first time since leaving her career in copy editing and staying home full-time with the boys, Phoebe felt the whir of her old self humming to life beneath her skin. She could do this. She was doing this.

  Olivia

  The farmer’s market was her favorite part of the weekend. She wasn’t sure if it was because she was the daughter of a chef who’d taught her to eat foods in their peak of season, or the vibrant vegetables arranged on wooden tables, or perhaps the calloused soil-stained hands of the farmers who stood behind them, but Olivia found the Saturday morning market a feast of the senses. She paused at an organic vegetable stand where she was a regular. Mr. Waters, the farmer, was handing out crisp green sprigs as samples. “There she is! You must come to the asparagus festival at the farm,” he told her. “It’s next weekend.” The lush stem cracked with a satisfying snap as she popped a sample into her mouth. “Heaven,” she said. “I’ll take two bunches.”

  Mr. Waters smiled appreciatively. “And how about this little one? Does she love asparagus like her mother?”

  Luci stared back at him, and the speech pathologist’s advice echoed sharply in Olivia’s mind. “Encourage her to use her signs and gestures around others.” She took a deep breath and nodded at Luci. After a long moment, when Luci still had said nothing, Olivia prompted her. “Do you like asparagus?” Luci averted her gaze, but just as Olivia’s heart sank she lifted her hand shyly and gave Mr. Waters the thumbs-up.

  “That’s right, darling!” Olivia gushed.

  If Mr. Waters wondered at the tears welling in her large brown eyes, he gave her a reprieve, instead reaching for a sunflower. “For you, my little asparagus eater,” he said, handing it to Luci.

  The small interaction boosted Olivia so thoroughly she stopped for fresh-squeezed lemonade and didn’t even balk at the price, three dollars per cup. She bought two. She even lingered at the animal pen under the maple tree where Goatboy Soaps set up their stand each weekend. Luci loved to pet the goats, Matilda and Bee, even though the day was sticky and Olivia needed to get home to the studio to finish up some work Ben had left for her. Best of all, today held the promise of what would be just an ordinary thing for most people: they had been invited on a playdate.

  “Come! Your friend Ruby is waiting. Let’s get home and get ready.”

  Ruby was not exactly a friend, but Olivia held out hope. They’d met at the library during story time, and though Olivia had explained Luci’s quietude to the parents during snack time, Ruby’s mother, Helen, was the only one who went out of her way to encourage her daughter to include Luci. She noticed when Luci looked hungrily at a tube of purple glitter across the table. “Ruby, make sure you pass the glitter to Luci,” she’d trilled during craft time, and when Ruby not only did but also told Luci that she liked her drawing, Olivia had wanted to kiss Helen.

  From the beginning, playdates had seemed impossible for a child who did not speak. Luci could not express herself for either socialization or her needs. If she was hungry or thirsty, she could not tell the hosting parent. Or if she wanted to pet the dog or ride a bike. When it came to playing, it was heartbreaking for Olivia to watch. The teachers reported that she parallel played at school. When a child was building with Legos on the rug, Luci would watch and then set up her own little spot beside her. But she did not interact. Sharing didn’t happen. Luci might glance at a toy she wished to play with, often in a yearning way. But she could not express it vocally. Worse, when other kids wanted something she had, they might ask her for it. But after getting no response, they would lose patience and often take the toy from Luci, leaving her breathless with hurt feelings. Or they’d give up and seek a playmate who chimed in, who shouted, who sang out loud and asked questions and shrieked with laughter. That child was not Luci. It was soul-destroying for Olivia.

  But today, a rare invitation to play was on the calendar. Luci was beside herself. “Did you know she has two cats and a hamster?” she asked her mother, eyes wide. “One of the cat’s names is Herman. I can’t remember the other.” People were always amazed that Luci knew so much about her “friends” when she interacted so little. She can hear! Olivia wanted to cry out. She can see, too! Indeed, Luci was always gleaning information from her classmates. Storing away anecdotal facts that she shared as openly at the dinner table with her mother at night as any other child might. Sarah Pratt was going to Rhode Island for vacation. Dylan Havens snuck his father’s car keys to school and the nanny had to come pick them up because Mr. Havens was late for work and couldn’t find the spare. The teacher, Mrs. Mandler, cried when she read a story about an old dog. Luci knew just as much about her peers and their lives as anyone else in the class, probably more. What she didn’t know was what it was like to have a friend.

  “Just pull around the circular drive to the front door,” Helen had said on the phone.

  Olivia glanced up at the sweeping contemporary as she got out of her car. Sleek black metal roof, commanding glass walls, a pea gravel drive that looked like it had been hand-raked. Olivia paused and tucked her hair behind her ears, smoothed her shirt. She smiled at Luci, who was already tugging he
r toward the front door. “Ready?”

  Luci nodded.

  Helen and Ruby answered together. “Hello! You found us out here in the woods.” Indeed, everyone in this neck of Connecticut was in the woods.

  Helen ushered them into a grand room, minimalist in both design and color. “Your house is lovely,” Olivia told her.

  “Thanks! My husband, Merrit, and I moved here from New York when we had Ruby.” Helen gave them a brief tour of the downstairs, which was every bit as pristine and kid-unfriendly as the exterior. Olivia noted the white furniture and area rugs. How did Helen keep it so clean? Though she realized that job was likely not Helen’s. “Ruby, why don’t you take Luci up to your room? Ruby has a Victorian dollhouse she wants to show you!” Helen said, bending to Luci.

  Ruby did not exactly look like she cared to show Luci the dollhouse, but Olivia appreciated Helen’s effort.

  “Luci would love that, wouldn’t you, honey?”

  The two girls glanced uncertainly at each other and to Olivia’s relief headed upstairs.

  “So how do you like Washington?” They settled in the living room on the white couches, and Olivia tried to relax.

  “It’s been great,” Olivia said. “The countryside is so lush, and we love all the lakes in the region: Candlewood, Waramaug, Lillinonah. I grew up in the city, but this is where I want to raise my child.”

  Helen nodded appreciatively. “When we first moved here I remember looking out the patio door at night and all I could see was darkness. No cars, no lights. Not a single house in sight. Just when I stepped outside I heard a coyote howl. I raced inside, slammed the door, and asked my husband what the hell we were thinking. Now I can’t imagine going back.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened. She’d not yet heard the coyotes at night, but Ben and Marge had mentioned them.