Strangely enough, being married to Jag isn’t that much different from living with Grant, cuddling and occasional nookie aside. We had a long discussion about how to handle the appearance of our new life together. We fixed up the bedroom next to mine, since actually sleeping together isn’t on the agenda, but we have been sharing the upstairs bathroom, trying to keep downstairs as new as possible and only using it sporadically. Since Jag’s bed is actually a sleeper sofa, when he closes it up in the mornings his room looks more like a small den, so on the off chance someone is in the house and comes all the way upstairs, it still looks like we only have one bedroom. In general, we’ve begun doing all the things that married people do. We grocery shop together, and at least three nights a week we take turns cooking with the other serving as helper or dishwasher. He’s teaching me some of his traditional dishes, and when I read something wonderful from Gemma’s journal, I copy it out and we cook from that. I haven’t told him about the journal, it still feels private and magical and just for me, so I assume he thinks I’m coming up with these recipes by looking online or borrowing from Caroline.
In lieu of a “honeymoon” we’ve spent our postnuptial time really hitting the basement hard. We jackhammered up the old concrete in trenches where necessary to run the new plumbing lines and roughed-in the bathrooms and the laundry room, poured new concrete over them, and finished designing the space on paper together. Working with Jag is constantly inspiring, our aesthetic is very compatible, and while he completely defers to me for final decisions, he’s very free with his ideas and they are invariably good ones.
We’ve decided to turn the former root cellar into a wine cellar, and have expanded the guest suite to include a sitting room and small walk-in closet. We’ve also decided on a media room, and bonus room with three-piece bathroom that can either be an office, second guest room, or exercise room. Laundry and storage. Mechanicals room. We debated long and hard about the possibility of keeping the elevator I had originally planned, but it’s such a huge expense, we’ve decided to create a series of appropriately sized stacked closets all the way up that will accommodate an elevator shaft should the future owner decide to install one. For now, they’ll just serve as extra storage on each floor.
The stone and brick walls only took four days to tuck-point and limewash, and they look amazing. Jack made good, sent me a step-by-step email for us to follow, and his friend is working on the limestone sills for me at a really good price. He came downtown to make templates and is having them fabricated, and he will install them for us. The stone foundation and brick walls cleaned up beautifully, and the architectural interest they have added to this space makes it very special. We were able to get all the new interior stud walls in; laminate hardwood flooring went down in most of the rooms, carpet in the media room and bonus room. We laid the electric radiant flooring pads in the bathrooms so they are ready for tiling, and we did thick cotton insulation and special drywall in the wine cellar, and now we’re getting ready to start doing finishing touches.
Jag’s training kicked right in, and he was able to make a good time and action plan for our work, and it looks like we should be able to get the basement completely finished in about another month or so if we don’t hit any snags. Another seven to eight months to finish the upper floors, and if all goes well, a quick sale and we can figure out what’s next. We have to live together for two years to get Jag a ten-year green card, but at least for now, since he entered the country legally and we had a public wedding and reception, they didn’t question our paperwork and we only had to apply for a change of visa status. I also filed the papers to put the Palmer house in both our names, since joint property ownership is considered a mark of a bona fide marriage, and we’ll file our taxes jointly. Jag has requested that I no longer pay him for his time, and instead I just pay the bills here, and I’ll give him a share of the profit on the house when we sell it. He was able to sublet his apartment in Andersonville for a small profit, so he has a little cash flow from that, and he still has this semester’s tuition in his account, so he’s participating in paying for utilities and food and such. He’s trying not to tap into the tuition money, knowing it’s his only nest egg, but he doesn’t want to take money from me now that I married him to keep him in the country.
We also have a rock-solid prenup, protecting us both for the eventuality of our divorce, which Jag insisted on paying for as my wedding present, in addition to all the visa paperwork stuff. But I don’t really think we need it. I just trust him completely, and ever since we got married, I feel calmer and more me than I’ve felt since I got here. Things feel like they are a little bit on solid ground again, and I do have to admit, I like having him living with me. While I don’t yet have the kind of friendship with him that I had with Grant—I doubt I will ever let anyone in that deep again—we are completely easy and fun together, we laugh a lot, and enjoy the company. There is something very comforting about just knowing he is here. And in a weird way, at this point in my life, it feels like he is the only thing I can rely on, personally and professionally. He is the only person who really gets me, the me I am at this place in my life. And with all of the guys I used to be able to count on for work avoiding me like the plague to cover their asses, Jag is the one keeping this project moving ahead.
The funniest thing about Jag moving into the big house with me has been Schatzi. As much as she was bonding with him before, ever since he moved in she seems to hate him. She has always hated me, so I’m used to the fact that it doesn’t matter to her in the least that I’m making a concerted effort to talk to her and give her treats; she maintains a chilly distance. But Jag? She was his pal before, but not anymore. She’s nipped him a few times, destroyed three shoes, from different pairs, of course, and shat on his floor. Twice. He’s taking it in stride. I keep telling him that it’s just that she’s leery. The last man I lived with she loved, and has since lost. She’s just protecting her broken heart. He’s good-natured about it, but I sense that his patience, while impressive, is not inexhaustible.
Emily, on the other hand, continues to have a passionate love affair with this dog that defies all logic. She has been pretty respectful of our time, very good about popping in quietly to take the dog for a long walk and some park time, and returning her without too much imposition on Jag and me. My guess is that she thinks she is giving the newlyweds some space, but whatever the reason, it’s fine by me. Her leaving date seems to be something of a moving target. I have let her come observe a few times, she does seem genuinely interested in the process of building a house like this, and Jag is amazing with her, patient and kind and sweet. I love hearing him talk her through what he is doing, especially since when he takes her on, I don’t have to. I know I agreed to get to know her because of her ridiculous, and I think overblown, Harvard issue, but with everything going on, I haven’t really had any energy to focus on her.
The girls seem to be reluctantly accepting my new marital status, and have stopped calling to check on my mental health every day. As annoying as it was before, now I do sort of miss those calls. I wish that I had felt like I could have been honest with them about the true nature of my marriage, but Jag was so concerned, and deep down I knew they’d have worked even harder to talk me out of it, and I’d still be sad little Anneke in their eyes. Not that crazy little Anneke is much better. The problem with lying, when you aren’t a natural, is that you have to create all these walls to protect your lie. Classic “be careful what you wish for” situation. I wanted them to get off my back, to stop worrying about my love life, to stop treating me like damaged goods. I wanted to take the public pressure off of myself to be anything other than what I want to be: a girl focused on her work, moving toward professional goals with determination, and not giving a thought to social or romantic relationships. I’ve succeeded a little too well. As much as I miss them, I’m also leery of spending too much time with them, because now I really can’t slip on the whole green card thing; I
don’t think they would ever forgive me. When I think about the next two years, keeping up the façade, keeping the secret safe, and trying to keep my girlfriends as well, it gives me butterflies in my stomach. I wonder if we’ll all survive, if we’ll ever get back to being friends the way we used to be.
There’s a big storm headed our way, the first real rainstorm of the season, and it promises to be a doozy. Early April showers in Chicago are always a little dangerous, and while everyone is claiming April Fools’ on this one, since today is the first, these storms are actually no joke. There’s still enough snow and ice pack on the ground after this particularly brutal winter, and that will double the water volume when the rains come and melt it. And then, without fail, the brief warmth will return to subzero temps and turn all that runoff into slicks of ice that won’t melt fully till much later in the month, if not early May.
Knowing that it’s going to be miserable out for the next couple of days at least, Jag thought he’d pick us up plenty of supplies, both building and food, so that we can hunker down and work and hang out. I’m taking advantage of his absence to take a bath in the new first-floor tub. As much as we’ve avoided making the new bathroom our primary bathroom space, continuing to use the upstairs bathroom for most everything, I can’t help indulging in the tub. I’ve missed the big soaker we had at Grant’s, especially after these long hard days of physical labor. The trickly water in the upstairs shower barely gets me clean, let alone truly refreshed. But this old claw-foot is just the ticket. It is a full six feet long and twenty inches deep, and I fill it with steaming water and lower my aching body into it. The water nearly covers my shoulders, and as I sink down, I can feel my muscles give in to the heat. The old cast iron holds the warmth, and I realize I haven’t taken a proper bath since I left Caroline’s. Grand-mère was a proponent of a proper bath. She took a bath every evening before bed; cool in the summer and scalding hot in winter, scented with some strange aromatic oil, sort of a combination of tarragon and rose. It smelled like floral fish stew.
I like my baths pure and simple. Hot water, scented like hot water. In a tub with no bells and no whistles. I don’t want jets shooting at me. I don’t want little tickly bubbles flying up my butt. I don’t want it to change colors or squirt me with aromatherapy. I’ve installed enough ridiculous over-the-top tubs in my day to know that people don’t really use them, not the way they think they will. The clients who talk about how much they love their bath? They have basic bathtubs that are scaled appropriately to them, fill quickly and drain easily, keep the water hot a long time, and are easy to clean. The rest of it is just rarely really used. I love an old refurbished tub like this one, especially in a period bathroom, but the new soaking tubs, particularly some of the heavy acrylic ones, are lovely too. Jag and I have been talking a little bit about the future master bath, joking about making the whole master suite “our dream.” He’s put me in charge of the tub. My husband? Is a shower guy.
As comfortable as it feels to be living with Jag, it still feels very weird to use the word husband. Grant’s dig about my mother hit closer to home than I like to admit. I never really associated marriage with love or need or longing. It represented friendly companionship at best and a weird combination of rescue from boredom mixed with financial security at worst. In my darker moments in the past few months I’ve wondered more than once why I wasn’t more broken by what Grant did to me. If I said yes to him with my whole heart to begin with. Our dating was brief, and mostly focused on his cooking for me while dealing with issues related to the apartment, and spontaneous sexcapades. And then it was finished and I just moved in. We lived together easily and then he asked and I said yes. But I never dreamed of it; it seems like it was just a path I was on. A perfectly pleasant path. Hedy once said that the worst sex she ever had was with a guy she slept with because in the moment she couldn’t think of a good reason not to. Which, apparently, is the single BEST reason not to. I’m beginning to think it isn’t impossible that I said yes to Grant, to the whole thing, from moving in to the engagement, for that simple reason. At least with Jag I feel specific and proactive and in charge of my own destiny.
“Hellloooo? Wife?”
And he’s home.
“I’m in the tub,” I yell. I hear footsteps down the hallway that stop outside the bathroom door.
“Very good, you relax. I’ll put everything away. I picked us up some lunch for when you’re finished.” His smooth British tone is muffled by the heavy wood door that separates us.
“Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.”
“Take your time.”
I let my body submerge completely under the water, feeling the heat sink through my thick hair to my scalp, the pressure of it on my cheeks, the pleasurable weight on my closed eyelids. Just my pursed lips break the surface, and I focus on breathing very slowly, keeping myself under, little bubbles escaping from my ears as they fill with water. Keeping the noise in my head blissfully muted and far away.
Today I think it is important that you learn how to roast a chicken,” Jag says when I meet him in the kitchen. We spent the afternoon mired in paperwork, finishing the basement bathroom design and getting the tub, toilet, tiles, and other fixtures ordered. About an hour ago the skies opened, and the deluge shows no signs of slowing.
“Really.”
“Yes, really. Those dried-out greasy salt licks you keep bringing home are not roasted chickens.”
“They are doing a masterful job of imitating roasted chickens.”
“No, actually, they aren’t. And you should know better.”
“I know, but roasted chicken is hard. It’s every chef’s test for a newbie.”
“Roasted chicken isn’t hard.”
“Okay, GOOD roasted chicken is hard.”
“No, darling, it isn’t. Come.” He reaches out a hand to me and I take it easily, and he pulls me around the side of the kitchen island. “Anneke, this is a chicken. Chicken, this is Anneke.”
I shake the chicken’s drumstick formally. “Hello, chicken.”
“Very nice. Now, you want to relax your bird.” He reaches for the olive oil and pours a generous amount in his palm, and begins to massage the chicken all over.
“Shall I get the chicken a cocktail? A Xanax?”
“Very funny. Now you season inside and out.” He deftly sprinkles a mix of kosher salt and ground pepper into the cavity, and all over the outside. “Onto the rack with you, bird.” He places the chicken, glistening and seasoned, onto a V-shaped rack in a small roasting pan.
“Don’t you have to tie it up?” Grant always trussed his birds.
“Nope.”
“Don’t you have to put things up its bum? Lemons or something?” Grant always put lemon slices and shallots and fresh herbs in the chicken.
“Nope.”
“Huh. Now what?”
“Four-hundred-degree oven till you smell it.” He opens the door to the oven and pops the pan in.
“Smell it?”
“When it stops smelling like cooking chicken and starts smelling like roasted chicken, it’s done.”
“I’ll let your nose be the guide. Otherwise we might have burnt chicken.” I’m remembering the sweet potato incident.
“So you say. But I bet you’ll know. Potatoes?”
“Sure.”
He takes two large russets out of the basket on the counter, washes them, rubs the outside with a tiny bit of oil, and goes over to the oven, putting the now clean and shiny potatoes right on the rack next to the chicken.
“Hey, don’t you have to poke those so they don’t explode?”
He looks at me like I’m insane. “No. They won’t explode.” Little does he know, but if he explodes potatoes, he gets to clean the aftermath.
“Wrap them in foil?” Joe always wrapped his in foil.
“I like a crispy skin, do you?”
“Yes.”
“No foil.” He grins at me. “We’ll steam some broccoli when the chicken is resting.”
I smile back at him. “You know, I was engaged to a fine-dining Michelin-starred chef, and you’ve just taught me more about cooking than he ever did.”
“That’s why you married me and not him.”
“Well, that and the whole cheating on me with a guy thing.”
“That too. You keep a nose on that chicken, I’m going to get a little more work done on the electrical plot for upstairs.” He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, and once he’s out of the room, I grab my phone and look up roasted chicken times, and it appears that forty minutes to an hour and fifteen is the range depending on the size of the bird. I set my alarm for forty minutes from now. Jag might trust my nose, but I’m not taking chances.
I told you your nose would know,” Jag says, licking his fingers. “Didn’t I?”
I put down the drumstick bone I’ve gnawed clean. “You did.” And he was right. Despite my backup alarm system, there really was a moment when the chicken just smelled done.
He looks all puffed up and proud of himself, and we sit in companionable silence as we devour the crisp-skinned juicy bird and the potatoes, crunchy on the outside and fluffy within, stuffed with butter and sour cream and sprinkled with chives. And steamed broccoli. Which is as good as steamed broccoli can possibly be, being steamed broccoli and all. But I put a fancy Gaggenau in-counter steamer in the island, so it makes getting your veggies done a dream, and even I recognize the need for some fiber and greenness in one’s diet.
Recipe for Disaster Page 21