Blake thought about it all week, with some trepidation, and he knew that there was no way he could tell Sybil about the Butterfield Mansion on the phone. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t convey the beauty of it to her, even with photographs, from a distance, or the fact that in the long run it made sense financially. But most of all, he couldn’t explain how spectacular it was, or once had been, without seeing her to tell her, and he felt he owed her that. He knew he had sorely tested the strength of their marriage by taking the job in San Francisco, and now he was pushing further, asking her to move their family into a home that was everything she didn’t want, although he hoped she would fall in love with it when she saw it, as he had. Something about the house had beckoned to him, and he couldn’t resist it. It seemed to be alive and have a soul. He had always been vulnerable to stray dogs and homeless children. When they’d gone to India several years before, he’d wanted to bring half the country home. But this was a house and not a person, and when he had walked through it, he had felt an inexplicable bond to it.
He had gone back with the realtor and taken hundreds of pictures on his phone, of every room and detail. And the photographs didn’t do it justice. In the pictures it appeared darker than it was, and more than anything it looked enormous. He realized that he needed to see her to tell her about it, and he took the red-eye to New York on Friday night, without telling Sybil he was coming. He wanted to surprise her. She stared at him in amazement when he slipped into bed beside her at six o’clock on Saturday morning. She smiled as she sat up in astonishment, and he was already half asleep on his pillow as he put an arm around her.
“What are you doing here?” she said, startled.
“I missed you,” he said, and pulled her down beside him, as she smiled, happy that he was home. The weekend together was an unexpected gift. She’d been planning to write an article for The New York Times about a design exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum, and her deadline for the piece was Monday, so she was busy too. All three children had plans, and Blake and Sybil would be alone for most of the weekend. She snuggled up next to him in bed, and they both fell asleep for a few more hours. The flight from San Francisco had been short, with good tailwinds, and he had slept only an hour or two on the plane. But he felt rested as he lay in bed and stretched lazily next to her when they both woke up.
“This is a nice surprise,” she said happily, as they got out of bed and she went to make breakfast for them. Andy and Caroline had both eaten already, and Caro had poured cornflakes into a bowl for Charlie and warmed a blueberry muffin to go with it, and he was sitting in front of the TV watching cartoons. And he had an iPad where Sybil downloaded movies for him, so he had plenty of entertainment. He let out a whoop when he saw his father, and then Sybil and Blake sat down to breakfast while Charlie went back to the TV.
“I have an article to write for The New York Times, but I’ll do it Sunday night after you leave. I thought you had work to do this weekend,” Sybil said as she smiled at Blake and set scrambled eggs and bacon down in front of him with the sourdough toast that he loved. It felt good to be home, although he was dreading his confession about the house.
“I did have work,” he answered her, “but I wanted to see you.” And as soon as he said it, Sybil saw something in his eyes that told her this was more than just a random visit. She knew him too well for that, and a little shiver of fear ran down her spine. What else could he surprise her with now? Had he met a woman in San Francisco and had come to tell her? He had never done anything like that, but after the surprises of the last several weeks, anything was possible.
“Did something happen in San Francisco this week?” she asked, trying to sound more confident than she felt, as she watched him carefully. There was a look on his face she couldn’t decipher, and he glanced away and seemed busy with his eggs when he answered.
“No, just a lot of meetings. I’m still trying to get up to speed.”
“Problems with your colleagues?”
“Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I’m just wondering why you’re here, and didn’t tell me why you were coming.”
“Am I interfering with your plans?” He sounded hurt momentarily, and he wondered if she was getting too used to not having him around. Maybe she had met someone, and wasn’t planning to move out of New York. They were both a little skittish after all their changes of plans recently, and unusual decisions.
“Of course not. This is your home, silly, and I’m thrilled to see you,” she said, but she realized now that he was nervous and acting guilty. And she wanted to know why as soon as possible. “I just get the feeling that there’s some reason why you came home, other than the pleasure of my company.” She looked straight at him as she said it, and he didn’t answer for a minute. He knew he couldn’t put off admitting it to her for much longer, and he didn’t want to. He had come home to confess, and now he had to.
“I do have something to tell you,” he said hesitantly, “and I wanted to do it in person.” She braced herself for bad news, and he pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and laid it on the table, so he could show her the photographs after he told her.
“Are you in love with someone in San Francisco?” she asked him in a strangled voice, and Blake was horrified at the suggestion.
“Are you crazy? Of course not. I love you.” He leaned over and kissed her. “But I did something this week that I didn’t expect to. It sounds a little nuts, but trust me, it isn’t. In the long run, it will make perfect sense.” It was the same thing he had told her about the job, and she was beginning to wonder what was happening to him. He had never surprised her like this before, and it was an odd show of independence that made her uneasy, but at least he had said it wasn’t another woman. She sat waiting expectantly, and Blake took a breath and leapt in. “I bought a house this week. It just happened. It’s hard to explain. I don’t know what came over me. I saw it and fell in love with it, and I hope you and the kids will too. It’s a fantastic house.” He looked serious and wasn’t smiling, and she suddenly remembered a house they’d once seen in Paris during a vacation there. It was a 1920s Chinese pagoda that had been on the market forever in a good neighborhood, and he had decided it would be fun to own a pagoda in Paris. But he normally wasn’t impulsive, and had come to his senses immediately and never bid on it. Reason had always won out with him, except lately.