I wasn’t a designer by any means, but I knew what I liked. And I’d always been drawn to a more industrial look and feel, something modern and clean. Maybe it was growing up in a house full of boys who were constantly making a mess of everything. Our house was big, sure, but always filled to almost bursting with sports equipment and action figures. Hockey pucks, G.I. Joe towns, and Legos underfoot (which hurt like you wouldn’t believe when stepped on barefoot). My mom’s charity fund-raising banners and posters, country French decorations, collection of stone turkeys, shadow boxes full of miniatures. Footballs, gym bags, my dad’s model cars, homework, paperwork . . . A family of eight makes for a lot of stuff. So when I got my own place, I went to the total opposite.
Chrome. Glass. Black leather couch and chairs. Clean lines. Right angles. Hard corners. My home office consisted of four computer monitors and a Lucite table covered with notebooks full of equations. My bed? Platform. Suspended night tables. Inlaid reading lamps. Everything in its place and in order.
They say a home reflects its owner’s personality, and Oprah says your home should “rise up to meet you.” I just wanted to able to come in, find what I’m looking for, and go about my day.
This house? Seaside Cottage? It rose up to meet you, and said “Hey, whatever you’re looking for, I think we’ve got it. Somewhere. Let me just look in one of these boxes; I bet we can find it.”
The clutter, the crap, the chaos—it was too much. However. There was something kind of cozy about it.
Take this kitchen, for instance. Huge, especially considering the age of the home. Usually kitchens in older homes were small and efficient. This one was filled to the brim with “things,” but it was cozy. Through the large, sunny window on the back wall you could see the barn and the garage, the flowers out back, and the ocean. The bottom half of the walls were covered in what Caroline said was wainscoting, battered and chipped a bit in places, but it was in pretty good shape. The old butcher-block countertops were covered in cuts and nicks, but I could imagine a hundred-plus years of women gathered here, dicing and chopping and laughing and chatting as they prepared another Thanksgiving dinner. There were three, count them three, blenders on those same counters, none of which worked. But at one point, did they whip up milkshakes for a generation of kiddos running here and there? Was I one of those kiddos?
The floor was scraped and dented linoleum, but I’ve no doubt that at one point someone had tended and waxed that floor to a polished gleam. The walls were a faded yellow, but covered with cheery vintage posters hawking Gold Medal flour, 20 Mule Team Borax, and Gorton’s Frozen Fish Dinners.
It was a home. And juxtaposed against my very neat and orderly place in Philadelphia, my apartment was never a home, I realized. It was just a place I slept.
Pretty heavy thoughts over oatmeal. It was really good oatmeal, though. I dipped up another spoonful.
Aunt Maude may have been on to something. The Legless Knight was clearly pushing it, but perhaps not everything had to be tucked out of sight. Hmm. We’ll see.
Enough introspection. I finished my breakfast and got dressed for the day. I was hoping Caroline would have some crazy design idea today where I could smash through a wall or something.
Lingering frustration over that dream?
I said enough introspection.
“So what exactly do you want me to do here today? You keep referring to me as backup; why is that?” Caroline asked as we walked through the house again. Simon and Ryan had dropped the girls off and then headed off to go windsurfing. It killed me that I wasn’t out there with them; it was something I’d always wanted to try. Instead I was inside the house on a glorious day like this, talking about floral prints and a settee. But I appreciated the help.
“You’re my backup insofar as you’re the one who can tell Clark when he’s being too much of a pencil pusher. When he needs to just shut up and let me make the changes I want,” I explained, tapping my foot.
“And what exactly are those changes?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. Then frowned. Then took another deep breath. Still with the frowning.
Caroline looked amused; I looked like a fish stuck on land and no clue how to breathe.
“I don’t know exactly,” I admitted. “But it just made me so damn mad that he could come in and tell me I couldn’t do something!” I thought back to the first day he came over here, arguing with me about the baluwhatzit. “The truth is, I love this house. I love everything about this house. But it hasn’t been updated in years, and if I’m going to live here, it’s got to be brought into the modern age. Even the basics are falling apart—the roof is like Swiss cheese. I’ve been lucky it hasn’t rained since that first night, but the next time it does, it’s going to pour in here again. And the front porch is rotten— I put my foot through it the night I arrived, and you can feel it when you walk on it.”
She nodded. “Yes, I felt it give when I came in today. Well that should be easy enough. He can’t expect you to go through the porch floor every time you come home.”
“Humpf. We’ll see. Hey, where’s your friend Mimi?”
“Hmm, she’s been awfully quiet since she went upstairs,” Caroline mused, walking over to the bottom of the stairs. “Mimi?” she called up.
“Nothing,” was the answer.
“Mimi, what are you up to?”
“Nothing,” came down again, followed by a thump. “I’m okay!”