“Let’s go in.” The seller’s agent couldn’t be here, so she gave us the lockbox code. I clumsily release the key and open the door. “The place is a little rough around the edges, but the inspection wasn’t bad. Most of what we’ll concentrate on is painting, papering, and swapping fixtures. We’ll need to do some minor bath upgrades, too, but that’s not a huge deal.”
“Noted.”
Ann Marie is completely silent while I lead her on the tour. She’s always quiet when she’s concentrating. And as most defense attorneys learn the hard way, she’s almost impossible to read. Of course, I could have told you that fifteen years ago, when we played strip poker at the Phi Delt house. All of us were down to our underpants while she hadn’t even removed her signet ring.
I talk through how the real layout compares to that of the movie. “The dining room was over there in the film, and the kitchen was way smaller, so this huge room is kind of a bonus.”
I show her all our favorite parts and elaborate on our plans to fix those that aren’t. I point out where I’ll put my writing room. “See?” I say. “I’ll have the perfect view of the apple tree when it blooms next month!”
We go all the way from the third-floor loft to the basement bar and then back out into the treelined yard. Rain’s left the soil too damp to make our way down to the lake, but it’s so windy we can hear the water slapping against the bluffs.
“So,” I say when our tour concludes, “what do you think?”
Ann Marie lifts the bottom of her scarf and inspects its edge. She’s stalling; that’s her one tell. Finally, she replies, “Purchasing this home is fucking insane.”
I let out a short barking laugh. “Tell me how you really feel. Seriously, what do you think?”
Ann Marie’s eyes are as steely gray as I’ve ever seen them. “What I really think is you should run away from this house. Very fast. The level of disrepair is profound and it’s going to cost hundreds of thousands more than you anticipate.”
Argh. Tell Ann Marie about the potential for rain and she’ll prepare for a hurricane. I’m not saying she’s one to overreact, but ... Oh, wait. Yes, I am.
“Honey, I respect your opinion—you know I do—but I’ve got to politely disagree. Our inspector gave it two thumbs-up.”
“Then he’s either mentally ill or incompetent.”
Before I can argue, she plows on. “I can see a dozen very expensive things wrong with this place from here. For example, there—the lintels over the window aren’t painted. They show signs of rust. Seems innocuous, yes? But eventually they’ll lose strength and won’t support the weight of the masonry. Was that noted in your report?”
“Um . . .” I don’t even know what a lintel is.68
“Right. Over there now, where the ivy grows?”
“I love the idea of ivy!” I exclaim.
“Yes? Then you must also love the growth of mold and mildew? Do you want to promote rot or allow access to small animals and bugs? Hmm? No? Then lose the ivy.”
“Fine. That’s a landscaping issue and not terribly expensive.” I feel a tad smug because I can almost never get anything over on Ann Marie, and when I do, I suspect it’s because she lets me.
“Your chimney cap is cracked and the exterior lights are loose, both of which sound small but can lead to a whole host of problems. Your gutters are deteriorated to the point that they’re leaching water into the soil around your house, which can impact the foundation. Want me to continue? All right, I shall. How about your roof? Mia, if you don’t want it to rain inside the house, I suggest you install a new one straightaway.”
“Listen, Chicken Little, the inspector—”
“Crazy, stupid, or senile.”
While I attempt to spot these so-called deficiencies, Ann Marie removes a linen handkerchief from her Kelly bag and dusts off her Tory Burch shoes. “Judging from the fine texture of this sawdust, I’d imagine you have termites. My guess is drywood, but I’d hesitate to rule out Formosan subterranean. And that beam, over there, under your writing window . . .”
At this point, I’m having trouble mounting a defense. I wonder, was Mr. Sandhurst a little lax in his estimation? He did wear those huge glasses and he was kind of elderly and . . .
Sensing my hesitancy, Ann Marie goes in for the kill. Suddenly I feel a tiny pang of empathy for any criminal who ever had the misfortune of facing off against her. “Pay attention to the long line of holes,” she explains, raising a neatly buffed pointer finger in the direction of the front right corner. “Caveat emptor, my dear. Woodpeckers caused those, validating my theory that most of the wood in this house is infested. Think about it. Woodpeckers don’t eat wood; they eat bugs. Ergo, if you have a woodpecker, you have bugs. How are you going to finish your book with the constant metronome of a woodpecker outside your window, hmm?”
Flabbergasted. That’s what I am. Flabbergasted.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say, except that our inspection didn’t show any of this. I mean, are you trying to scare me out of living here? If so, you’re doing a swell job.”
“Yes! Absolutely I am! Run! I beg you to run away from this deal.”
This simply cannot be, so I persist. “What you’re telling me—it’s all fixable. A roof can be replaced. Termites can be killed. Ivy can be trimmed.”
“Mia, the heart of the matter is, you don’t understand what you’re undertaking,” Ann Marie says in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. “Yes, you can almost always predict which option the homeowner will choose on House Hunters, and I believe with your taste you’d shine on Design Star.” She quickly amends her statement. “If you were putting together a room for little girls or gay men. What I’m trying to impress upon you is that renovations are long and ugly and demanding. You won’t grasp how invasive it is until you live it. Our powder room remodel took a month. No matter how much we tidied up, it was like every day the contractors came in and shook a five-pound bag of flour all over the house. I worry that this will put undue pressure on your and Mac’s shoulders. I just worry. That’s all.”
I have complete confidence Ann Marie has my best interests at heart and I believe her. . . . I do. She’s rarely wrong in spirit, but she frequently overestimates the scope of a problem.
Plus, I might just believe in fate a little bit more.
Destiny wouldn’t have led me to Jake Ryan’s house if it weren’t the one for us.
Right?
But just to be safe, I’m going to move my writing room to the library.
Chapter Seven
I’VE GOT TWO CONCUSSIONS AND A MICROPHONE
Chaos. That’s how I’d describe the situation here. Chaos.
Our closing yesterday was smooth sailing over calm seas. Then I was expecting chaos. I’d heard so many closing horror stories prior to the event, like problems with financing, parties not showing up, or worse—sellers dropping dead and the property going into probate, fights breaking out over Realtor percentages, paperwork snafus that took weeks and thousands to fix, but our closing entailed us signing our full names a bunch of times in blue ink and then receiving a set of keys. Easy peasy.
Start to finish, the whole thing took half an hour. We would have been through sooner if the seller’s attorney and I didn’t spend a few minutes bonding over our mutual distaste for cheesy vampire romances.69
But after that? Nope, didn’t expect what happened after that.
Our last few minutes of Zen came after we walked out of the real estate office and stepped into the car. “This Is the Day” by The The was playing. With lyrics like, “This is the day / when things fall into place,” Mac and I grinned at each other like a couple of lunatics. Truly, yesterday was the day our lives changed, you know? I’m not sure either of us could have contained ourselves if “If You Were Here” had come on. Hearing that song reinforced my belief that there are always signs when something’s right, which is why I didn’t even bother to tell Mac about Ann Marie’s advice. The universe knows what it’s doing.
<
br /> We stopped by the new house briefly to make sure the keys worked, then hightailed it back to the city, because we hadn’t come close to boxing up all our belongings for this afternoon’s move.70
I was unloading the hutch in the living room when I noticed this spinning-rimmed low-rider making loops past our house. At first I was annoyed by the thumping bass but shrugged it off, knowing I was spending my last night in the ’hood. If the hipsters and hoodlums wanted to take ownership of this block, fine by me.
But as they continued to cruise around the house, I paid more attention.A pattern soon emerged—whenever the car full of shavedhead thugs passed our yard, they’d drive extra slow and lean out as though they were trying to get a peek at us.
“Mac!” I called into the intercom. “Mac! ORNESTEGA and his idiot friends keep circling the house. I’m worried they’re going to attempt a drive-by.” Seriously, I thought, if these little punks shoot me on the day I bought Jake Ryan’s house,then . . .I guess that really would be the day that my life changed.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mac groused, stomping up the stairs. “These morons have no concept of physics, do they? If they were smart, they’d set up a sniper nest on the roof across the street. They can’t shoot us from a car, you know. Unless you’re a Ranger or a trained assassin or Agent Jack Bauer,71 it’s almost impossible to hit a moving target from a moving target. That’s why you always hear about innocent bystanders getting caught in the cross fire. If these derelicts had any concept of how to work a weapon, they’d all peg one another and social Darwinism would go a long way toward resolving the Cobra/Latin Kings territory dispute.”
“Uh-huh, great. I’ll just go ahead and call the police then.” I herded the pets in front of me so we could all scurry down to the basement. Then I noticed the determined set of his shoulders. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
“No worries!” he assured me as he dashed up the stairs to the second floor. “My plan is foolproof!”
Well, shit.
I hid in the basement, waiting for the police to arrive and trying desperately to avoid getting a face full of hot lead.
In the interim, Mac went to work. Using a broom handle, a long down coat, and my Fashion Fever Barbie Styling Head,72 Mac made it look like a person was moving around behind our window sheer. I’d have congratulated him for his ingenuity, but considering he got the idea from Home Alone, I gave him only partial credit. And unlike Kevin McCallister, he was trying to lure ORNESTEGA and Co. in, rather than scare them away.
When I heard the hail of gunshots and the subsequent shattering glass, I sprinted upstairs to find Mac standing next to our broken window, tsk-tsking and wearing an oddly amused expression.
The forensics experts told us that out of the shots fired, seven bullets went straight into the ground, one hit our neighbor’s satellite dish, two lodged in the mailbox on the corner, four ricocheted back into the trunk of the car, and one grazed the driver’s right thigh.
No one was seriously harmed in the firefight,73 but ORNESTEGA suffered a broken leg and concussion when the injured driver floored the getaway car and bashed into the church across the street.
If that’s not God’s payback for the graffiti, I don’t know what is.
Well played, Lord. Well played.
By the way, the bullets didn’t shatter our window. None even landed on our property. The window broke when one of the spinners flew off the car and bounced into our house after the crash.
Between giving statements and tracking down a windowboarding service, we didn’t have a lot of time to shove stuff in boxes last night. Tracey and Kara brought us dinner and lent a hand, but at that point the evening was shot.74
First thing this morning we called (begged) for some boxing assistance, and now there’s a team of six ladies making time and a half to Bubble Wrap our unmentionables while ten movers load out what’s already in cartons.
Mac isn’t even here to help supervise this three-ring circus. I figured the most appropriate punishment for, you know, drawing gunfire was to transport two hyperactive dogs and four angry kittens to the new house in his prize Mercedes. He called earlier to tell me that with all the yowling and barking, it was like driving up the expressway with six air-raid sirens.
I told him as soon as I stopped smelling lead dust, I’d be more sympathetic.
As it turns out, the sixteen strangers currently scurrying in and out of my house are not the source of the chaos.
Oh, no.
That honor belongs to Vienna, who’s presently standing in my front door.
She didn’t show up for our final walk-through on Friday. Per her Twitter feed, she had a “really important colonic” that took precedence. Now she’s here, unannounced, unscheduled.
And she’s brought a camera crew.
Vienna thrusts a piece of paper at me. “Sign.”
I take the document from her, more out of curiosity than courtesy. “What is it?” I squint but can’t make out the fine print.
Vienna blows an enormous bubble in my face, sucks it back in, and gives her gum a couple of aggressive chews before answering. “We’re, like, capturing how I’m a savvy business working executive woman. People want to see me perform jobs.75 I’m, like, a one-twopre-noor and everything, which is the oldest profession. My show’s gonna be all uplifting and shit. For poor people. Now let’s do this thing already!”
A guy in cargo shorts carrying a boom mike explains rather sheepishly, “That’s a consent and release form, pretty standard language. Can you please sign it? Please? We’re shooting Vienna’s new reality show, One Night in Vienna.” For a brief moment, I see something almost haunted in his eyes, but before I can ponder it, I mentally rewind what he just said and . . . Hold up a minute.
What?
Then my memory clicks. I read something about this recently on PopSugar.com. I guess Vienna wants to one-up her frenemy Paris and do a business-oriented version of The Simple Life to prove that she’s no longer the coke-snorting, paparazzi-shoving, assistant-abusing diva the media’s made her out to be. I imagine that’s why she’s clad in a business suit.
Of course, most executives I know tend to wear a shirt/bra/ camisole/something under their single-button blazer, but it’s possible I just don’t understand every nuance of haute couture. The September issue of Vogue can teach one only so much.
To confirm, I ask, “You want to film our walk-through?” The producer accompanying the sound guy nods.
“We need to show Vienna taking command in a professional environment,” the producer confirms. “When she speaks to you, try to defer to what she says. We want to put a positive spin on this.We’re out to show a whole new side of Vienna.”
According to Dlisted.com, her last few ventures ended badly. Turns out even the most avant-garde fashionista draws the line at carrying a cat-skin handbag. Rumor has it that Anna Wintour decreed Vienna’s signature perfume smelled like “hepatitis B and poor decisions.”
I’m still holding my consent form and processing what’s happening around me. If I sign this, does that mean they’ll use my image on-screen? I’m a bit ambivalent about this. On the one hand, no publicity is bad publicity; on the other, I’m not sure that particular axiom applies to publicity in conjunction with Vienna.
Vienna’s entourage includes a cameraman, a couple of guys carrying heavy lights, a makeup artist, two hairstylists, and a personal assistant, in addition to the aforementioned sheepish sound engineer and producer.
“What are you, like, waiting for?” Vienna snaps. Then she grabs her assistant, bends her over to create an ad hoc writing surface, and slaps my consent agreement on the center of the assistant’s back before thrusting a pen in my face. “Sign it.”
In the background, ten movers and six packers have gathered to watch the action unfold. A few are taking cell phone pictures, and who could blame them?
I hastily autograph the sheet while the first hairdresser tries to fluff Vienna’s coif. Vienna’s seemingly already sat
isfied with her do—a prim French roll adorned with feathers, sequins, and dangling crystals—and shoves her out of the way with the heel of her palm. Luckily, the stylist’s fall is cushioned by a battery of empty boxes no doubt destined to hold my wastepaper baskets.
Vienna waves her arm in the air as though roping some imaginary cattle and begins barking orders to various crew members. “Hey, fatty! Yo, retard! Smelly guy! You, dead tooth, come here and get me in profile. I’m ready for my close-up! And . . . action!”
I guess that neatly explains the crew’s pained looks.
While Vienna and her posse move to the center of the living room, a packer notices the few remaining glass shards from last night’s altercation and attempts to retrieve them. “No, no, please!” I blurt. “We’re not taking that with us! Those are pieces of broken window.”
Vienna’s interest is suddenly piqued. “Wait, my window? You broke my window?”
“Um, didn’t you notice the enormous board where the center casement window used to be? We had a drive-by shooting here last night. Pretty scary, but don’t worry: We’re fine and insurance will cover the replacement costs, so, really—”
Vienna snaps her fingers behind her back and mouths, Make sure you’re getting this, to the camera operator. She lunges toward me and stands an inch from my face in classic reality-show confrontation mode. “You broke my window? You bitch! You fucking fake-ass phony bitch! I’m going to sue you! I’m going to sue your fat ass off! You don’t get to break my window. You’re not seeing a dime of your security deposit. I mean, I could, like, buy and sell you! Yes! I’ll do that. I will do that! Buy you! Sell you! Because you suck! You’re, like, a big ugly bag of Polish sausage stone-face slut!”
I’m a what?
I mean, I understand the words she’s saying individually, but all together like that? Not so much.
Vienna continues her tirade, now with twenty percent more spittle and some intense neck rolling. Is she going to bust out the you-go-girl finger wag? And . . . there it is! “I hate you, I hate this house, I hate work, I kind of love Britney, but you? You I hate and I hate your asshat-face.”
If You Were Here Page 9