As Long As It's Perfect Read online

  Hunched over the plans like a rabbi among the Dead Sea Scrolls, we often studied until the wee hours of the morning, reworking Luke’s drawings over and over. But by the end of the month, we realized we would have to make compromises.

  “Let’s bump my parents to the basement,” I said one evening.

  “Really?” Wim said.

  I shrugged. “It’s more important to have an office we’ll use every day than to have a first-floor guest suite that gets used twice a year.”

  He nodded and started throwing out ideas: The office could double as a guestroom. We could even build in extra closet space.

  “Maybe instead of a half bath next to the office, we could build a full bath,” I said.

  And our dreaming began all over again.

  Eventually, we settled on a guestroom location that felt good to us, and we bid out the remodel to several builders. We’d expected some bids to be high, but after a long month of waiting, the three proposals that came in were more expensive than we ever could have imagined.

  “I just don’t know.” Wim closed his eyes and rubbed his hand down the side of his face. We were sitting at the computer, looking at a spreadsheet he had created to help compare the bids.

  “They’re even higher than Luke expected,” I said in dismay.

  “I feel like I want to throw up,” Wim said. “After all the money we paid for this house, the idea of spending this amount just to make it livable …”

  “And still not get everything we want.” I got up and poured us both another cup of coffee, stirring just the right amount of cream into his. It was coffee I’d brewed in the same French press Wim had had in Switzerland, a classic-looking glass jar with a beautiful stainless steel frame that made the perfect amount of coffee for two people. Wim and I both cherished our morning ritual of boiling water, pouring it over the coffee grounds, waiting six minutes for them to seep, and then, finally, lowering the plunger with a satisfying push slow and steady. There was something about the effort involved that made the coffee taste even better.

  “I had an idea about the basement guestroom,” I said. “What if we build taller windows to let in more light?”

  Wim gave me a look that said, You’ve got to be kidding. A familiar look that sometimes made me not want to open my mouth. “You can’t just build taller windows,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have to work with the existing ceiling height.”

  I closed my eyes, embarrassed for saying my idea out loud.

  “Unless …” He stared off.

  “Unless what?” I asked, hoping he hadn’t grown so discouraged that he wanted to cut our losses and scrap the project altogether. But what he said next shocked me.

  “We tear down the house.”

  CHAPTER 12: PEEING AT VERSAILLES

  Rosemead, CA – November 1992

  Our Rosemead apartment faced a grassy, tree-lined courtyard adjacent to a gated swimming pool that, as full-time students, we rarely used. Inside our six-hundred-square-foot two-bedroom, one-bath unit, beige drapes hung like protective coveralls over beige walls, and commercial brown wall-to-wall carpet covered the floors. In the family room, the carpet had faded at the edges to a distinctive swimmer’s-hair green from exposure to the bright sun that filtered through the patio sliding door. The few pieces of furniture that we owned—a mishmash of second-hand items—took up most of the small room.

  Along one wall sat a sofa we had purchased at a tent sale; along an adjacent wall, a mauve futon I had inherited from a college roommate. Completing the sitting area was a large oak coffee table, matching end table, coordinating side lamp, and antique replica quail paperweight-and-candlesnuffer set my mom had purchased for my dad’s legal office and passed on to Wim and me when my dad retired.

  Shortly after his retirement we sat with my parents around their kitchen table discussing the economy—mostly, listening to my dad’s views on wealth. “The economy may be showing signs of improvement, but the climate could change,” Dad told us. “There’s the possibility that Clinton’s health care reform, if it happens, will add costs to businesses and stifle the creation of new jobs. Your graduate degrees will be more important than ever.” He removed his silver-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “Jerry, they haven’t even graduated yet,” my mother said. “Let them finish school first.”

  Dad blinked twice and returned the glasses to his face. The stems slid through his short gray hair, which, though it was receding at the temples, was still fairly thick. “I’m fortunate to be able to retire at fifty-eight, when most people are still working.”

  “Now that he’s retired, he’ll have more time to take me to the mall,” Mom said. “When the day comes, I plan to bury him near Nordstrom so I have a reason to visit him each week.”

  Wim and I chuckled, but my heart dropped. I was fully conscious of my emotional and financial dependence on my parents; I couldn’t fathom living without them.

  “It’s going to be harder for your generation to live as comfortably as we have. When we were your age, once a week your mom and I would go out for a five-dollar steak dinner at Monte’s Restaurant, the only splurge we allowed ourselves because we were saving money for this.” He indicated the house with a sweep of his hand.

  He retold the same story I had heard many times before—about how the year I was born, in preparation for my arrival, my parents began the process of building their custom home in Downey. Unable to afford to buy their dream house, and unwilling to settle for a starter home, they purchased for $12,500 a two-thirds-acre lot with towering eucalyptus trees a few minutes’ drive from my grandparents’ house. It sat in a neighborhood of emerging California ranch-style homes, also on large lots. My parents used to picnic on the property with my older brother and sister, then two and five years old.

  Two or three years later, they had saved enough money for a down payment on a loan and were able to build the house. It cost $65,000 and, next to their kids, remained their greatest source of pride: a large, four-bedroom, three-and-a-half bath, single-story home sitting high on a hill, its tall front doors flanked by contemporary white stone. The shallow-pitched, simple A-frame roofline created a distinctive vaulted family room ceiling—a feature that, in 1966, was ahead ofits time. A simple marble-tiled fireplace surround and hearth were designed in harmony with the marble entryway.

  Living in a big house, I had always vacillated between pride and self-consciousness. Our house awed my childhood friends, most of whom lived on the other side of town in small tract homes. They called our small but glamorous powder room “the fancy bathroom.” I too was enamored ofits gold gilded faucet with crystal knobs, flocked white wallpaper, and embellished gold soap dish and decorative rose-shaped hand soaps. At a time when a bar of green soap on a piece of rope was something special, using our powder room in all its regal splendor was akin to peeing at the Palace of Versailles.

  Now here I sat, nearly twenty years later, around the same glass-top table where my family used to convene for dinner each night and recapture the day’s events. As I watched my parents, both of them sitting at their designated places at the table—Mom closest to the counter so she could easily serve and clear, Dad directly across from her, and me in between—I felt a pang in my chest, hoping that saving money to build a house would be an experience Wim and I could share with our own children someday.

  My dad’s voice broke into my reverie. “Arlene and I always lived within our means. I would caution you and Janie to do the same.” He looked at Wim. I nodded in confirmation. Of course we would. We are a sensible couple, I thought proudly.

  The rest of the conversation revolved around whether the leather sofa from his office would fit through our apartment door.

  CHAPTER 13: WANTED: KICK-ASS KITCHEN

  Raymond Ave, Rye – July 2007

  Ethel Vanguard had the reputation of being difficult, but word around town was she designed beautiful kitchens. I tracked her down in an industrial pa
rk near the local airport—an unlikely location, I thought, for a kitchen-design service. My daughter Paige and I entered the nondescript office building, and a receptionist buzzed us in through the large glass doors. A few minutes later I was shaking hands with a Phyllis Diller look-alike: a wild-haired bleach blonde, her makeup layered as heavily as a Sunday-night lasagna. She was dressed like a diva in a designer suit and high heels and was bedazzled in impressive jewels—big diamond studs and a massive diamond solitaire engagement ring. Rows of kitchen plans hung down behind her on metal racks like sides of beef at the butcher.

  Ethel’s assistant whisked Paige off to a room with a video player and a bag of cookies. I followed Ethel and her trail of cologne into the main showroom, where she plied me with coffee, donuts, and her best sales pitch. She started with a seminar in cabinetmaking, during which she explained the difference between inset and overlay cabinets—the only perceptible variation to me being the $10,000 difference in price.

  “Do you want glazed cabinets, hon?”

  “Uh, that sounds nice,” I said.

  “There is an upcharge for that.” She moved on to other seemingly endless options: Corian, granite, or marble counters? Wood or tile floor? Porcelain, metal, or glass backsplash? She romanced me with glossy photos of award-winning kitchens she had designed.

  It may have been her musky perfume, but I soon found myself falling under her spell. She led me over to another section of the showroom, where, like a game show assistant displaying Doors Number 1, 2, and 3, she spread out her arm toward three different kitchens, each one more stunning than the last. She asked what I wanted: The old-country charm of the Tuscan kitchen? The simple, sleek lines of the modern kitchen?

  “I’m leaning toward the traditional kitchen, but …” This was all happening so fast.

  “Well if you like this traditional kitchen, we’ll just replicate our display. We can do it just like that!” she said, snapping her fingers.

  Instantly, I understood. Her shop was a factory of kitchen modules, where the same three models were cranked out over and over. But I didn’t want a “presto” kitchen. A kitchen, to me, was a work of art. I didn’t want a lithograph; I wanted an original. And like every other aspect of my house, I wanted to help create it—to experience the joy of agonizing over every last detail. I collected my daughter, along with another donut, and hit the road.

  My next interview was with a designer named Tom.

  Tom wore a blue button-down shirt and navy tie; his gray hair was shorn close to his head like he was a spring lamb. He explained in great detail his products and services and handed me a steady stream of brochures.

  “So, is there anything special you’re looking for?” he asked finally, looking at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.

  I quickly discovered I wasn’t comfortable discussing my culinary desires with a male kitchen designer. I’d grown up in a time when the kitchen was a woman’s arena, where dads wandered in only to replenish their Heinekens. I told Tom about my storage needs and expressed my desire for a Tupperware drawer, a special place to keep all those plastic storage containers and their elusive lids. But Tom didn’t want to talk about kitchen storage. He seemed only concerned with cabinets, counters, and floors. When I tried to steer the conversation back to Tupper-ware, he nodded politely, glanced at his watch, and told me he had another appointment.

  Then I met Joan, who had designed some of the most beautiful kitchens and bathrooms in town. Joan was a middle-aged blonde who wore a single strand of pearls over her cashmere sweater. She had a sophisticated wholesomeness about her; she was the type of woman you could imagine spending afternoons baking soufflés and enjoying evenings at the opera.

  At our initial meeting in her small studio in Scarsdale, New York, she asked casually, “Do you know what kind of kitchen you want?”

  Sitting at her hand-carved wood pedestal table, I plunked down a red vinyl binder crammed with magazine pages capturing every aspect of kitchen design from flooring to countertops. This binder was the cousin to my black book, which by now had become so crowded with inspiration that tiny cracks had erupted along its once-pristine spine.

  Since meeting with Ethel Vanguard, I’d attended every kitchen-tour fundraiser within a sixty-mile radius and scoured every kitchen-design magazine on the racks until I’d discovered precisely the look I was after: a blend of traditional and contemporary styles through simple lines, neutral colors, and varied textures. The term for it was “transitional,” and it was to become the design scheme for our entire house.

  “It looks like you’ve brought some pictures to show me.” Joan smiled at me and nodded toward the binder, apparently undaunted by the thought of perusing a catalog so enormous I was sure the table would give way any second under its weight.

  Joan seemed so relaxed, I probably could have said I wanted a disco ball hanging from my kitchen ceiling and she wouldn’t have batted an eye.

  When I mentioned my Tupperware-drawer idea, she said, “I think that’s smart. Tupperware is one of those things we use regularly but never seem to have a good place for.”

  “Exactly!” I said.

  “Your kitchen should be designed to fulfill your unique needs. I have a client who loves to bake, so I designed a special cabinet for her to store her baking supplies, things like flour, sugar, and baking soda,” she said brightly.

  “Yes. That totally makes sense.” Unlike the other designers I’d met, she seemed open to the idea of customizing our kitchen to our specifications.

  “This won’t be your mother’s cookie-cutter kitchen,” she said.

  “Good.” I laughed. “Because my mother wouldn’t settle for a cookie-cutter kitchen.” I thought of the hidden pull-out cutting board beneath my parents’ kitchen countertop, custom designed for them, and finally felt understood.

  Every one of Joan’s kitchens were custom built, every cabinet handmade. Of course, this made her designs some of the most expensive in the area. But as I ran my fingers along the smooth edge of the two-tone walnut pedestal table, I was suddenly reminded of my mother’s favorite pair of Ferragamo black-and-white wing-tip spectator pumps in Italian leather. I still remembered when she purchased them, could picture her admiring her feet in the mirror while I sat beside her, swinging my ten-year-old legs to the live music of a tuxedo-clad pianist playing soft jazz on a Steinway grand just a few yards away.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” she said. “A little more than I wanted to spend.”

  I watched her gently slip off the designer shoes, insert them back into their protective drawstring pouches, and place them in the box.

  “But it’s better to pay more for something that will last.”

  She pulled out her credit card as I followed her to the register.

  “I think you’ll really like Joan’s kitchen designs,” I told Wim later, and my prophecy came true. He was floored by her design. But he was more floored by her price.

  “You could have a new Mercedes-Benz for that,” he said.

  “I’d rather have a kick-ass kitchen,” I said.

  CHAPTER 14: UP IN FLAMES

  Downey, CA – December 1990

  Ican still picture Wim’s shoes lined up with geometric perfection at the foot of his neatly made bed. I remember the special five-course meal he prepared for my visit to Switzerland—the one I hoped would allow us to establish where we stood in our relationship and determine whether we had a real future together.

  I remember the two of us sitting in his barely eat-in kitchen, playfully examining the Caesar salad, the hairy-looking dark anchovies making it seem as if someone had lost an eyebrow in the mixed greens. The smell of chicken roasting in the oven—how we scurried down to the cellar for a bottle of wine, got swept away in an intimate moment, and returned to find the kitchen smoking, the bird engulfed in flames. Our side trip to Paris, where I took a nap in our hotel room and awakened to find Wim standing over me, wet with rain and holding a bouquet of white roses. The dinner party a
t the home of his friend Patsy, our embarrassment when she greeted us with surprise—she wasn’t expecting us (we’d forgotten to RSVP)—our humiliation when she insisted we stay even though she didn’t have enough chairs to seat us, and how we spent the entire meal perched on a suitcase. And how, young and in love, standing on Patsy’s balcony later that evening, watching New Year’s fireworks, wrapped in Wim’s arms as brilliant bursts fell over the city, I felt like we were a pair of stars, perfectly aligned in the night sky.

  For more than two years since the summer we’d said goodbye in Portugal, I’d been tormented by loneliness. I tried to bury myself in my studies in an effort to fill what was missing, only to find myself distracted by the very things I missed: our long walks in the woods, our candlelight dinners in his apartment, our lazy afternoons together in bed. I longed to be near him, to hold him, to touch him. I longed to breathe in the musk scent of his Ralph Lauren cologne: woody, herbal, and spicy. I longed for him to undress me and lay me across his duvet, my body naked, cushioned by the downy layer. I longed for him to map the constellations on the curve of my back, to feel his fingers trailing the small dark dots of Ursa Major over my northern sky.

  Here we were, two people deeply in love and happy, but we were apart, which made me feel depressed and alone. The only thing that brought comfort was when he’d remind me that we were both looking at the same moon, just as we had our last night together in Lagos.

  Like any couple, we argued—only unlike other couples, our arguments strained our relationship and our wallets. In one night we racked up an $800 phone bill, most of the conversation spent feuding. Each minute that passed reminded me of a dollar sign popping up on a vintage cash register, time burning a hole in my pocket, burning up money I was trying to save for our future together.