Lauren tries and fails to imagine Dan seducing a French adolescent. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. Henry’s starting school, so I’ll be able to devote some attention to this one. It won’t be the same as with Henry but it never is, I think. It’s just not possible.”
“Right. I’m the oldest, remember, so I got the bulk of my parents’ nurturing.” Lauren licks her spoon clean.
“And look how you turned out!”
“So the au pair will au pair—and you’ll . . .” Lauren pauses. She doesn’t know how Sarah does it, how Sarah hasn’t lost her mind. Primed for a career doing whatever it is she does and then—to spend years just wiping bottoms. Lauren knows that’s how it’s done, she just can’t believe it.
“It’s enough work for three, let alone two,” Sarah says. “In my fantasy, she’ll do the drop-off with Henry in the morning, so I can deal here. Sleep. Cook. Maybe go to the gym, can you imagine? Then I’ll do the pickup while she gets the baby to nap. I thought maybe Henry and I could start a mother-son date tradition or something? Afternoons at the bakery or the playground. I want to make sure both the boys get their alone time with me. I’ve read that can be a problem when you have the second.”
“It’ll be fine,” Lauren says. “You’ll find a way. You always do.” She pauses. “Something’s different in here.”
“We redid the playroom,” she says. “And new floors there and in here.”
“New floors. I knew there was something. Are these reclaimed?” Lauren’s been at the design imprint long enough to recognize reclaimed wood. The floors feel very solid underfoot.
“They are reclaimed,” Sarah says. “A barn in Pennsylvania. I don’t know anything about them. Devin, our architect, he insisted there’s a big difference.”
“They’re strong,” Lauren says. “But they have that patina, that spirit—it makes the house look less new, more like it’s been around forever. It’s nice.”
“He promised that two kids wouldn’t be able to destroy them, anyway.” Sarah pushes her empty bowl away. “You want to see the playroom?”
“Sure,” Lauren says. She puts her bowl on top of Sarah’s and places them in the sink. She follows the mass of Sarah’s body, moving slowly across the floor, which is clean and toy-free. There’s a big dining table, rustic, simple, set with benches, between the island and the pocket doors, which are set into the sort of elaborately carved walls common in houses of this era. The doors move open effortlessly, and quietly, on their casters.
The playroom is bright; though they’re in the basement, they’re not so far below street level, and the windows are big. One wall is floor-to-ceiling shelves: toys, books, framed photos, even a miniature library ladder that reaches to the uppermost shelf. There’s a sofa, large and low-slung, off white, inviting a stain but surprisingly clean. There’s a small child-size desk and chair, and a child-size easel, and a child-size guitar and a child-size drum set. There are paintings on construction paper, framed in simple white frames, dozens of them, hung on the facing wall. On each, Sarah’s written Henry’s name, and the date the artist completed the work. The room is quiet, cool, beautiful. There are many trucks, but Lauren does not see the truck she has brought. The room is perfect, of course. She feels sheepish about the book she’s brought with her. This room could have been in there.
“Let’s sit.” Sarah eases herself onto the sofa. “I can’t handle the stairs right now. Maybe I should start sleeping down here.”
The sofa is firm, but comfortable. Lauren thinks it must be stuffed with actual horsehair, a rarity in this day and age.
“So, how’s work?”
“It’s good, actually.” This is true but still feels like a surprise. “I’m producing a book with this queeny old designer who’s about a hundred, you should see his rooms. Gold andirons, hand-painted wallpaper, murals on the ceilings, that kind of thing.”
“Do you miss cookbooks?”
“I don’t,” Lauren says. “I think I was ready for this change. Enough of the best turkey burgers ever. The one-hour dinner party. I was done. Now, I’m developing titles, reaching out to new writers and soliciting designers. And we’re doing well. Actually making money, in books, which is nice.”
Sarah yawns. “I’m sorry. I’m not yawning because you’re boring, I’m yawning because my brain is very tired.”
“Not offended,” Lauren says. “You’re pregnant.”