The packet, printed on heavy stock, easily weighs two pounds. Rather than e-mailing it, he drives to Cannonfield Road and places the parcel into the mailbox. His logo, MARK TILLY DESIGNS, in lowercase Courier, dwells in the bottom corner of the envelope like a centipede.
Gretchen Von Mauren calls the same afternoon. Only indignation could prompt such a call, Mark thinks. She is offended by his audacity.
“Hello, Mrs. Von Mauren,” he says, his voice lowering involuntarily.
“Mark, I’ve looked over the estimate. I’d like you to throw it out.”
He drops onto the Ghost chair. “My apologies, Mrs. Von Mauren. Perhaps I should have spoken with you in more depth about what you and your husband hope to achieve.”
“No, no. That’s not what I mean. What I want you to do is throw out the numbers, don’t worry about the money, don’t worry about completion dates. There is no budget, there is no timeline. We want this house to be a showstopper. Believe me, I wouldn’t be talking to you if I didn’t trust your instincts.”
Mark’s eyes rest on the Hirst over the mantel, a citrus vortex with an empty center.
“Well, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Gretchen, for the vote of confidence.”
“So you’ll draft a master plan for us?”
“Yes, yes.” He has a nauseous feeling from looking at the painting. “I’ll have to come over to take another look before I can start.”
“Come tomorrow.”
He begins to hand-draft the interior elevations. It is already August. They’ll have to skip Provincetown this year. Truth be told, they’ve both tired of the high-season flamboyance, the flapping colors, the vibrating sexual energy. They are no different from other middle-aged couples, perhaps, in obeying this instinct to slow down and turn inward.
Harris announces that he will need to hire someone at the store while Mark is working on the project. “I’ll put an ad in the paper. Unless we know someone?”
Mark calls Camille.
“I don’t think I’d be good at customer service,” she says, “but I do know someone you might like.”
The woman comes in for an interview. Madeleine, a transplant from Charles Street, near their old apartment. She doesn’t have knowledge of vintage decor, but is attractive and poised.
“She might take away some of the gayness,” Harris quips. “I didn’t see a wedding ring, did you? She must be single, or maybe divorced?”
“Maybe she’s a lesbian.”
“Camille would have mentioned that.”
This is it, then. Mark smiles sadly. It’s good that Harris will have the help he needs, he tells himself, a kind face in the morning, someone to admire his rubber insects, maybe keep one on her desk like a pet. It will make it easier to leave.
Finally, in late September, Mark sits in the ancient kitchen of the Ezekiel Slater house and shows Gretchen Von Mauren the plan view, the walls of windows in the sunroom. She thumbs through them, nodding.
“And green design.” She taps him lightly on the arm. “I’d like to hear your ideas for green design. Ways to incorporate environmentally sustainable materials, renewable wood and bamboo, et cetera. While retaining the colonial flavor of the house, of course.”
“I’ll put some examples into a portfolio. Then we can go through it together and start putting in orders.”
“We really want a blend of the old and the new,” Gretchen says, gesturing a circle, “and light. Lots of light.”
“Do you want to enlarge the windows even further?”
“Mmm . . .” She trails off, as if staring through the kitchen wall. Her hair is glossy, cut in a carefully serrated fringe. When she looks back at Mark, there is a girlish snap in her eyes. “My cousin just married his boyfriend, you know. I think it’s so wonderful that people are finally coming around. People should be free to love whoever they want.”
Mark smiles uncertainly. “Absolutely.” Gretchen holds his gaze for an uncomfortable moment. He shifts in his chair and pats the pages in front of him. “Okay, so larger windows? I’ll revise the drawings and have them back to you by next week.”
“Oh. Next week?”
“I can try for Friday, but I can’t guarantee it.”
Driving back into town, a shark-gray Lexus follows too close to his bumper, and Mark feels his neck muscles tense. He sees the pouf-haired form of a woman driver and has an overwhelming urge to flip her the bird. Instead, he takes a long breath and pumps the brakes. The Lexus recedes behind him. It would be so easy to become a misanthrope, he thinks, to judge others by their Barbour jackets, their piano-key teeth. These are people with their own heartaches, he scolds himself, their own generosities.
Coming into the store, he finds Harris squatting on his haunches, singing with a little girl. The new shop assistant, Madeleine, stands beside them, beaming. Harris is going bananas, making hand gestures to accompany “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” The child is giggling, twirling her skirt. When Harris glances at Mark, his eyes are ablaze.
Mark hesitates. “She’s adorable,” he offers.