As Long As It's Perfect Page 13

  “Luke asked about sconces,” I told Wim, ready to refocus on lighting.

  Luke’s design philosophy, “less is more,” had become our golden rule. He often recited this mantra whenever we were stymied over a design decision, and we’d obey, trusting his inclination toward keeping things simple.

  Still, I often felt overwhelmed, so much so that my anxiety was beginning to play out in my dreams. “Even in my dream last night, Luke couldn’t help me make a decision,” I told Wim one morning.

  “You dreamt about Luke?” Wim frowned.

  “Yes,” I said. “We were preparing a dinner party with him. We all planned the menu together but couldn’t decide on the entrée. We finally narrowed it down to bouillabaisse or chili. Then we settled on chili but debated over how to make a perfect chili. We scoured stacks of cookbooks in search of the perfect recipe, but we couldn’t agree on one. I told Luke, ‘How about we give this one a try?’ But he said, ‘Too many pinto beans. Remember, less is more!’”

  I didn’t tell Wim about the last part of the dream: “How about this one?” I’d asked. “Not spicy enough,” Dream-Luke had said, and I thought I’d caught a naughty gleam in his eye. One that turned me on.

  “So what happened?” Wim was asking.

  “We never found the perfect recipe.”

  Wim blinked, not sure what to make of me.

  I knew our project would be challenging, but I honestly hadn’t expected building a house to be such a big undertaking. Even with an overinvolved architect, a kitchen and bathroom designer, and an interior designer, it was a full-time job. However, this was not something I often shared out loud. I was aware that it was a full-time spending job and not a full-time earning job. Instead, I talked to Wim about progress.

  He said things like, “Things are moving fast now. The framing especially.”

  And I agreed: “Yes, the frame has gone up so quickly.”

  Our dream house was suddenly like a maze of timber. Soon, the house would be wrapped in Tyvek paper, the protective cover that later would come to insulate Wim and me in an entirely different way. Assuming we lasted that long.

  CHAPTER 26: ALMOST AROUSING

  Raymond Ave, Rye – October 2007

  Lately, things were seeming bleak. Even our Jewish New Year celebration two weeks earlier at our friends Sharon and Brian Sadowski’s house hadn’t held its usual festive vibe. The adults, rattled by the fall of housing prices, had chattered through Rosh Hashanah dinner about plummeting asset values while the children talked among themselves at the other end of the table. The apples and honey on the table, symbolic of a sweet New Year, contradicted the worrisome conversation.

  Every year it was the same. Same rituals. Same friends. Only this year it felt different. It was fall of 2007, and there was a feeling of doom in the air. I sat quietly in the middle of it all, sipping my wine, staring from one adult to the other—each with a background in finance—listening to them debate the financial market and Bear Stearns hedge funds imploding and wishing I understood what they were talking about. I had scanned the headlines, tried to understand the stories … Sub-prime loans were taking a lot of funds down and were eliminating people’s jobs along the way. Wim was knee-deep in this, so his job, and our livelihood, was acutely at risk. That much I got.

  Outside, the leaves were turning rust and gold. There were dozens of pumpkins growing on thick vines in the corner of the Sadowskis’ yard. Had I decided on the crown molding yet? I couldn’t remember.

  “So, Wim, is this a crisis or isn’t it?” Sharon was asking him.

  I noticed the heavy creases on Wim’s forehead, the weight of apprehension in the room. Still, I couldn’t help looking around Sharon and Brian’s spacious dining room and imagining us hosting Rosh Hashanah dinner at our new house next year, at our own dining room table, which I would finally be able to extend with both leaves to accommodate fifteen dinner guests.

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” Brian interjected. Brian had recently retired from his job in finance, news that had made Wim envious when Brian had first made the announcement. “He’s almost ten years older than you,” I’d reminded Wim, hoping that would make him feel better. But it hadn’t.

  Brian and Wim were discussing bankruptcy protection when another couple, the Bensons, broke in. As they took over, I caught Wim’s subtle nod, a signal that he was ready to leave.

  On the drive home, I said, “What was everyone talking about?”

  “The financial market is in turmoil,” he said with a wary voice. He was fiddling with his wedding ring, continuously spinning it with his thumb as he steered the car. It unnerved me, the thought that he was nervous.

  “Do you think—”

  “I can’t talk about it anymore tonight,” he interrupted, an edge to his voice. Maybe he noticed the hurt look on my face, because he softened and said, “We can discuss it another time.” Then he fell silent, and he remained so for the rest of the drive.

  Despite the seriously bad news affecting the stock market, economy, and Wim’s job, I was still shopping. Designing the house had been the hard part—now I got to do the fun part, furnishing it. I spent hours shopping for just the right thing, enraptured by the beauty and functionality of each piece.

  One October morning, after I’d dropped the kids off at school, I boarded the Metro-North Railroad from Rye to Manhattan with my interior designer, Faye. She was taking me to the famous Decoration and Design Building (a.k.a. the D&D Building), where, as a certified interior designer, she had official access to it all: Scalamandré silks, Grange furniture, and Osborne & Little wallpapers.

  Dressed for the occasion in linen slacks and a sleeveless cotton blouse, I tugged gently at the strand of pearls around my neck, bouncing lightly on my seat, anxious and excited to explore this goldmine of designer furnishings and accessories, where I would finally take my books of inspirational interiors from fantasy to reality and find special things that no one else was going to have. The conductor called out stations over the loudspeaker—“New Rochelle, New Rochelle! Next stop, New Rochelle!”—as New York whipped by. I took note of the vinyl seats, a sea of drab brown; not even train upholstery escaped my notice these days.

  Thirty minutes later, we were weaving through the Upper East Side in a taxicab. As we approached Third Avenue and passed Bloomingdale’s—their flagship store—my palms began to sweat, my heart beat violently, and my cheeks flushed crimson. I could hardly contain my excitement.

  The cab driver pulled up in front of a gray stone high-rise; I threw a small wad of bills in his direction and ran for the entrance. Faye was one step ahead of me.

  She strained against the massive steel-gauge designer doors with all ninety-nine pounds of her body weight, and we entered.

  I stood, awestruck, taking it all in, frozen like one of the statues in the lobby, marveling at the impressive vaulted, coffered ceiling and the divine white Carrera marble floors and walls, which resembled beautiful cumulus clouds and were radiant in the glow of the soft lighting. I felt as if I had just entered the pearly gates of heaven. Shopping for and thinking about the house made me giddy and light—a stark contrast to Rosh Hashanah dinner, where I’d been tipsy with wine yet sobered by the conversation.

  Faye turned to me. “Are you ready?”

  “Sure,” I said, forcing a yawn to mask my tears of joy.

  “Let’s go.” Faye strode forward with the confidence of a Westminster show dog while I followed behind with the eagerness of a gamboling lamb.

  We boarded the elevator. At the eighteenth floor, the doors opened upon a long hallway studded with endless rows of design stores. I feasted my eyes on colorful oriental rugs, expressive textiles in shimmering metallics, and exotic wall-coverings in cork, silk, and fabric. It was an intoxicating cornucopia of beautiful things—and I had access to it all!

  Faye led me first to Kravet, where an array of food was sumptuously displayed on a chintz tablecloth: crustless watercress sandwiches, poppy seed bagels, min
iature muffins, and raspberry jam. We stopped for a quick nibble and a steaming double cappuccino.

  “Can I help you, ladies?” asked a saleswoman dressed head to toe in Gucci, not a section of blouse untucked or a hair out of place. I wondered if that was her Chihuahua wearing the fur stole and diamond-studded collar and staring me down from its perch on a velvet sofa, its eyes saying, Hands off, señora, this sofa belongs to me.

  “Thank you, we’re fine,” said Faye.

  Sitting at a café table, sipping my gourmet coffee, the moment, steeped in gracious, relaxed living, seemed to capture everything I was feeling. This was the life of my dreams—albeit in a showroom.

  We entered Donghia and passed the silks and the linens, hesitated briefly at the cottons, then settled at the forgiving chenilles, where we waded through hundreds of swatches, each neatly hung on its own hanger. I was drawn to the neutrals and soon found myself knee-deep in beige. I wasn’t one of those people who needed to see a color consultant to help them go un-beige or find their inner fuchsia. I wasn’t afraid of color; I was sick of it. Every room in my old house was a different jewel tone, and I was ready to give bold color a rest.

  “Now, I know you want neutrals, but given that you have three kids, we don’t want to go too light.” Faye rifled through fabric swatches faster than a bank teller counting out bills.

  “Right,” I said. There was a sample of ice blue velvet hanging beside me. I reached out and stroked it, unable to resist the sensuality of its smooth surface, soft and fleshy under my fingertips. It was almost arousing.

  As I fondled the fabric, it struck me that neither of us really knew my price range. Faye had asked for our budget on more than one occasion, but I’d never given her a straight answer. The truth was, I wasn’t sure. I only knew I had a vision, and I planned to execute it.

  When Wim had suggested that I create an interior design budget for each room, I’d told him it was too hard. “I have no idea what it costs to furnish and decorate an entire house,” I’d said with a shrug. So we’d come up with a lump sum instead, a ballpark figure equivalent to the cost of the new car I wouldn’t be buying. Hailey, already expressing enthusiasm about getting her driver’s license in a few years, would have to resign herself to the fate of sharing my minivan. At the rate we were blowing through our savings on the house, she was lucky her college funds were safely tucked away in untouchable savings accounts.

  Eventually, Faye would figure out that we wanted the best mid-price furniture and upholstery she could find. Initially, I had run every invoice Faye gave me for sofas, chairs, and rugs past Wim for his approval. But ever since a recent argument—“Why can’t you just take care of things without me?”—it had been up to me to decide, and I was often confused. Wim had given me free range to spend what I wanted, but it was disorienting to shop without a budget.

  There was a voice inside my head that dared me to go ahead and dive into the sumptuous embroideries and jacquards, to give in to silks and linens. To go for broke and ignore price tags. To blow everything on luxurious velvet window seats with coordinating custom pillows and draperies, and bedrooms with tufted upholstered headboards and matching fine silk curtains with decorative tassels.

  Meanwhile, Faye placed a hand on my arm and repeated the words I didn’t seem to have access to: “That fabric is out of your price range.”

  Yes, my decorator was the one urging me to be more practical.

  We moved on.

  CHAPTER 27: LOOKING FOR MR. POTATO HEAD

  Rosemead, CA – September 1992

  What the …?” Wim stopped and cocked his head. It was a hot Saturday night in September. My husband and I had been getting frisky in our bedroom, and we’d just felt a rhythmic vibration that wasn’t our own.

  “It’s coming from next door,” I whispered. “Again.”

  “Why are you whispering?” Wim whispered back. “Are you afraid you’ll distract her?”

  I gave him a swat on the shoulder. The series of grunts and yelps penetrating the wall suggested that Judy was engaging in fierce sex with howler monkeys. A gruff and greasy-haired bus driver, Judy liked to entertain guests in her apartment—boyfriends, passengers, zoo animals, I couldn’t be sure. But judging by the force with which her bed pounded against the wall at all hours of the night, someone was driving Judy’s bus, and she liked it.

  “My God, it sounds like she’s having sex wars with another couple in there,” I said.

  “Either that or she has rechargeable batteries.”

  A loud moan reverberated through our bedroom.

  “That’s enough to crush a man’s sex drive,” Wim said, rolling off me in frustration, his face and shoulders silhouetted against the dim light escaping from the hallway. “Will it ever stop?”

  Finally, the noise subsided. I pulled our yellow floral Laura Ashley comforter up to my chest.

  “I think it’s over,” I said, reaching for my water glass on the night table. “Or not.” I sighed as we heard the bed squeaking and bumping against the wall.

  Wim snorted. “And we were so worried about the train noise when we moved in.” He got out of bed, stepped into his crumpled boxer shorts, and left the bedroom. A few minutes later, he returned with a golf club and started banging on the wall with the handle. We heard cackling, followed by more pounding. Wim banged the wall some more.

  Before long, Wim and Judy had a cross-beat going; his three beats against her two created what sounded like an African call-and-response prayer, one that I feared might anger the apartment gods.

  The pounding subsided. Then, a few minutes later, Thump! Thump!

  Wim faced the wall and put his hands up in surrender. “I give up,” he said, pulling on a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He turned on The Late Show with David Letterman and turned up the volume. I knew we were both thinking the same thing: Get me out of here.

  Normally, when tenant problems arise, one tenant takes things up with management. But our landlords were my parents. How could we complain about anything when they were letting us live there rent-free?

  Seeking to invest in something beyond their children’s educations, my parents had purchased this small, twenty-unit multi-family dwelling—a pale stucco flat-roofed apartment building on a quiet cul-de-sac dotted with palm trees—in Rosemead, California. Rosemead is a small city, which by LA standards means 50,000 people, or the daily number of visitors to Disneyland. Located about twenty miles east of downtown Los Angeles, it’s not far from Downey, where I grew up, but is half the size.

  My parents generously footed the bill while Wim and I attended graduate school in the hopes that helping us further our educations would propel us into successful careers. In their minds, a graduate education was more an expectation than a hope. They believed in the value of education as a path to opportunity for themselves and their children. By the time I completed my master’s program in social work—my second go-round in graduate school—I had spent more time collecting degrees than earning a paycheck. Still, my parents asked, “How about a PhD?”

  Over the course of our three years living in Rosemead, Wim and I both attended the University of Southern California. However, our classes were on opposite ends of campus and were taught, from my perspective, through the lenses of opposing social ideals. Wim’s MBA program, based largely on free market competition, would prepare him to take on the world. My MSW would prepare me to worry about it.

  Rosemead is an ethnically diverse city similar to my hometown of Downey, with a large Hispanic population and a mix of blue- and white-collar workers. Wim and I lived in an area that was a mix of apartment buildings and small homes, and we would often take walks in the “nice neighborhood,” where big houses were set back on expansive green lawns. During our early months there—before Wim’s mood began to sour—we often strolled hand in hand along the sidewalk past the mansionettes and dreamed aloud.

  “Would you rather live in this house?” I’d point to an English Tudor with a steeply pitched roofline and staine
d glass windows. “Or that one?” I’d nod to a beautiful Spanish-style home with a clay tile roof shaded by tangerine trees and a stone walkway lined with rose bushes.

  “Which one has lower taxes?” he’d say.

  As if creating the Mr. Potato Head of our youths, we would pick out the best features of one house and combine them with the best features of another to create our own perfect vision—our fantasy home. Preferably it would not be in Rosemead but a place where we could walk to restaurants, shop at farmers markets, and enjoy Sunday barbecues with neighbors.

  Then we’d go back to our pint-size apartment and listen to Judy and her partner thump like jackrabbits.

  CHAPTER 28: TOMMY

  Lexington Ave, Rye – January 2008

  When I drove up to the house and opened the front door to check on the morning progress, I wasn’t prepared for what I encountered.

  I’d developed a knack for knowing who I would find on site before I’d even stepped across the threshold. If the company logos painted on the sides of the trucks parked outside our house didn’t clue me in, the music playing from the old, paint-splashed boom box plugged into a generator by the long extension cord that hung down from the second to first floor was a dead giveaway. I often entered the house against a forceful blast of music that echoed down from upstairs, a flurry of sounds exploding from the crackling speaker.

  If the painters were working, the music was Latin American, frenzied and wild. When I walked through my new front door, I entered a soulful world of painting troubadours who sung lyrics aloud to the background of lively guitar strumming in a way that made me want to whip up my skirt and dance the flamenco.

  The lively beat made me nostalgic for Los Angeles and standing in my friend Marlena’s kitchen, listening to salsa music while helping her grandma make Christmas tamales wrapped in corn husks and tied with twine. It surprised me how much I’d missed Latino culture since our move to Rye. Even though I hadn’t broken a piñata since I was ten or road-tripped to Tijuana since my late teens or spoken Spanish with coworkers in years, I still yearned for the culture I’d grown up with—the people, ideas, and customs. Though Rye was a great town, everyone came from the same stock—same race, ethnicity, and religious values. Everyone was white and Christian. Only a few Jews lived in Rye, and I was related to most of them. When we’d first bought our Raymond Avenue house, we’d discovered that Jews in Rye were outnumbered by Tibetan terriers. To help friends navigate their way to our annual Hanukkah party, I learned to say, “Look for the house without the Christmas lights.”