by Lisa Tognola
AS LONG AS IT’S PERFECT
Copyright © 2019 Lisa Tognola
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2019
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-624-4 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-63152-625-1 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019906680
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She Writes Press 1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
As Long As It’s Perfect is a work of fiction. Although some businesses, places and locales are real, certain characteristics have been changed. Names, characters and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To My Family
PROLOGUE: MY FIRST HOUSE
Downey, CA – October 1974
My first house was painted pale yellow. It had hardwood floors, a gabled roof, and exposed rafters that made it feel like a cottage. Inside, white cotton curtains sewn by my mother hung from two paneled windows on shiny brass rods. The furnishings were simple, yet comfortable—a pine kitchen table and chairs, painted white to match the curtains, and a rustic corner hutch that was taller than me—all handmade by my grandpa Gil, who worked at a furniture store. The furniture was perfectly proportioned to the scale of the house, which was no bigger than a tool shed and located in my parents’ backyard.
My playhouse was a place where I could lift the latch to open the top half of the swinging Dutch door and say to friends, “This is my house, you can’t come in”—and then, to their surprise, open the bottom half and let them in.
It was a place where I spent much of my childhood: throwing tea parties for my stuffed animals, crossing the threshold of my imagination, and playing out my fantasy of home. There in the shadow of my parents’ house, standing at my Playskool kitchen rolling imaginary meatballs and cooking them in a lidded skillet, I created a magical world.
I can still feel the warm California sun peeking in through the door and kissing my eight-year-old cheeks. The Santa Ana wind blows in through the open windows as my pigtails swing side to side.
Outside, beyond a stretch of green grass, my grandmother, wearing a kerchief tied over her hair, is sweeping the patio with an old broom. She is humming in the distance. With my own miniature broom, I sweep my floor and brush cobwebs out of high corners, lost in the calm as I watch small clouds of dust float like fairies across the floor.
A sudden rattling sound startles me, the noise followed by an urgent “meow.” I open the door. A black cat leaps inside; her paws land with a soft thump. Whiskers rubs against my bare leg, then slides her face along my hand as I pet her.
Normally, she spends her days exploring the neighborhood park behind our backyard.
“What if she gets lost and can’t find her way home?” I remember asking my mother when Whiskers was a kitten.
“She’ll always find her way back.”
“But what if she wanders too far?”
“She won’t,” Mom said.
CHAPTER 1: FENCING WITH THE NEIGHBORS
Lexington Ave, Rye – June 2006
On a Thursday morning, the day of our house closing, Wim and I sat side by side in stiff leather chairs across from our attorney, Robert, in a conference room lined with scholarly, leather-bound legal books, the mood as serious as a British courtroom. Only this was Rye, New York, not Rye, England, and our attorney donned a suit and tie rather than a robe and wig.
Robert unfurled our house survey and tapped his finger on a dashed line that represented the fence that separated our yard from our neighbors’. “There’s a problem,” he said.
“What problem?” I asked. Problems worried me.
He peered at us over the top of his tortoiseshell reading glasses. “Your neighbors’ fence is on your property.”
Not only was it on our property, he said, it was four feet over the property line. Four feet was practically the depth of our entire yard at our old house, where relaxing out back meant sharing a hammock with your neighbor. In Rye, real estate was at such a premium that every square inch of land was valuable. I’d heard stories about backyards measuring several feet short and the whole deal falling through. Robert told us if we didn’t move the fence, someday down the line our neighbors, the Zambonis, would have the right to claim it. “Squatters’ rights,” he said.
As I took in the news, my eyes drifted toward a painting of an English foxhunt, with hound dogs running chase and jumping a post-and-rail-style fence just like the one standing between us and our house closing.
Intellectually, I knew our situation was trivial: a wooden fence merely needed to shift over a few feet. But I was troubled by the notion that we hadn’t even moved in yet and already had a potential Hatfield-McCoy feud on our hands. The last thing I wanted was contention with our neighbors. I glanced at Wim, who seemed vexed over having to cope with yet another house problem.
As desperate as I felt to avoid conflict with the neighbors, I was more desperate to close on this house. “I’ll go to the Zambonis’ tomorrow and talk to them,” I said with more confidence than I felt. I didn’t want to do it, but I felt I had to prove myself.
“You’re sure?” Wim flashed me a look of surprise.
I nodded. “I think that’s the best approach,” Robert said. “Okay, then,” said Wim as he picked up a heavy pen and reached for a small stack of papers on the table.
Watching him flip through the pages, I felt as if this moment were more than a house closing—it was a turning point in our lives. Buying this house was something I’d dreamed of our whole life together. Not this house, per se, but the perfect house. The house that would make our lives complete. For years we’d been wandering like nomads in the desert, and now we were on the verge of entering the Promised Land.
When we’d finished signing all the documents, Robert congratulated us and wished us luck—then reminded me that we still had a fence to muscle through.
The next day, I pulled into the driveway of our future home and headed straight to the Zambonis’, feeling both determined and terrified. As I cut across the fresh-mowed grass, I noticed the trees bending in the wind and the birds circling overhead. A blackbird landed on the Zambonis’ roofledge, and as I watched it I admired the Palladian window arched over the front entry, which lent the house a prominent elegance. It was a strange fate that I’d pined over this very house ten years ago when I’d first dreamt of living on this street, and now I was standing on its porch looking next door onto my own new front yard.
I’d always wanted to see the inside of Sue Zamboni’s house, though not under these circumstances.
A welcoming wreath hung on the front door, which I hoped was a good omen. I knocked and waited, half hoping that Sue wasn’t home. It was ironic that my husband the businessman—accustomed to negotiating contracts, able to separate his emotions from his goals, to take opposition in stride—was sitting at work, drafting a banking agreement, while I, a stay-at-home mom
whose greatest recent experience with conflict was centered on my son’s refusal to eat broccoli, was about to “handle” this.
Sue, a petite, casually dressed redhead wearing a turquoise T-shirt and no makeup, swung open the door. “Hi, Janie! Come in, come in.”
I looked at Sue, her fair skin and delicate features. With her perfect little turned-up button nose, she reminded me of Ariel from The Little Mermaid. By contrast, my tumbled mass of tobacco-colored curls and slightly askew nose were straight out of central casting for Fiddler on the Roof.
Sue smiled and ushered me inside. My eyes quickly moved past the foyer, surreptitiously taking in as much of the downstairs as possible. The large house, bright and airy and built only about a decade before the Zambonis had purchased it a few years earlier, had lots of big windows—a feature I hoped to emulate soon in our own home.
Sue and I had only spoken a few times at our children’s school events, although Wim and her husband, Matt, were casually acquainted through their jobs and commute to Manhattan. I had always found her pleasant, and had noticed more than once how her kind eyes sparkled when she smiled—something I kept reminding myself of as I mustered the courage to bring up the problem fence.
The two of us made idle chitchat until she finally noticed the official-looking document that I was gripping so tightly it was beginning to wilt in my sweaty hand.
Sue leaned casually against her granite countertop as I bounced nervously on my toes. I rubbed my lips together, trying to quell my nerves.
“So, we found out that your fence is actually on our property …” I thought my bladder was going to give way. I actually looked down at my feet, hoping not to see a puddle.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not,” she said. As the words rocketed out of her mouth, she looked out toward her yard as if seeing the fence from her window proved that it was in fact on her property. “I know, because when the fence company installed it they had a copy of the survey.” She sounded so certain it was hard not to believe her. “Even the Adamsons approved the location.”
I didn’t have to be a psychic to read her mind: You know, our old neighbors, the people you just bought a house from—that nice, easygoing couple whose kids used to run back and forth between yards, using the gate that we installed just for them—the ones who didn’t cause problems.
“Well, our attorney told us yesterday that it’s on our property.” I held up the wilted survey like a dangling question mark and watched her perfect eyebrows draw together in a frown that I could have sworn bore my initials.
“Let me see that.” She snatched the limp document from my hand and scrutinized it under the pendant light over the kitchen island.
Finally, she handed back the survey, although, judging by the dark look on her face, what she wanted to do was shove it down the garbage disposal. Her arms, animated just seconds ago, were now crossed firmly over her chest. “I’ll have to discuss this with my husband,” she said distantly, as if I didn’t know his name. Then she showed me out.
It wasn’t winter, but I caught a frosty breeze as she shut the door.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have said anything,” I said to Wim the next morning as he dressed for work. He had just folded back the French cuffs of his shirtsleeves and was now, with practiced movements, running cufflinks—silver and mother-of-pearl—through their tiny holes, a feat that, like childbirth, seemed to defy physics. “We just bought the house and we’re already making waves. Sue is probably complaining about us right now.”
I imagined Sue speaking in hushed tones with her friends, nodding in the direction of our house. “Can you believe how petty they are?” she’d say. “What are they going to whine about next, that our grass isn’t green enough?”
Wim stopped fastening his cufflink. “Janie, we had to say something, it’s our property. I understand that it’s a nuisance and an expense. But I’m sure if the shoe were on the other foot, she and Matt would have done the same thing.”
“Do you think they’ll dispute the survey? Do you think they’ll try to sue us?”
“I think they’ll move the fence,” Wim said. “I can’t talk about this any more right now, I need to get to work.” He gave me a quick kiss as he strode past me in his navy pinstripe suit, looking confident and powerful. The opposite of how I felt.
The weekend passed. Nothing happened.
I convinced myself that Wim would have handled things more tactfully. I was sure that if he’d gone over there, Sue would have offered to move the fence immediately and then made him a cup of coffee.
I went to visit our new house every day, just to imagine what it would be like once we fixed it up and moved in. I dropped off my kids at school and then parked my minivan across the street so I could take in the tall trees and wide lawn that set off the house and surrounding landscape. I tried to avoid Sue altogether; I did not want another confrontation.
On Wednesday, five days after my visit with Sue, I heard a commotion in the backyard. I looked toward the Zambonis’ driveway and saw a team of men moving their fence.
I called Wim at work.
“That’s great,” he said.
I wanted him to acknowledge my efforts and how difficult the whole ordeal had been for me, but it didn’t seem to register. Instead, he said, “Now when the renovation starts, you’ll be able to handle any construction problems that come up.”
He was only half joking.
CHAPTER 2: LOVE ON A DOCK
Portugal – August 1988
“Itold you, I’m not renting a car,” Wim said. “The girls are right,” Max said. “Taking the bus to Sagres will take a lot longer.”
“I don’t care,” Wim said sharply.
There was an uncomfortable pause, as if no one knew what to say next. I worried that Wim’s stubbornness would undermine our plans to travel as a foursome—though the truth was, I wasn’t sure I still wanted to.
Then Shayna asked Wim the question I suspected we were all wondering: “Why don’t you want to rent a car?”
His mouth formed a thin, straight line. “I’m not traveling on my dad’s credit card,” he said, looking at me. Wim had worked all summer to earn the money to pay for his trip to Europe. My friend Shayna and I were being bankrolled by our parents.
“It’s not that bad if we split the cost four ways,” Shayna said.
Wim reached into his bag, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it.
“Well, you can do what you want,” Shayna said to Wim. Then she looked at Max and me. “We’re renting a car.”
An hour later, Shayna and I sat wedged in the backseat of an old Citroën, Wim riding shotgun while Max, a cigarette pressed between his lips, steered us down winding alleys, through narrow cobblestone streets bustling with cafés, and past white bleached limestone buildings toward Portugal’s Algarve.
Wim was sulking in the passenger seat, still grumbling to Max about money.
“What a jerk,” Shayna whispered to me.
“I know,” I whispered back. “He seemed so nice before.” What had happened?
Shayna and I had met Wim and Max two days before in the American Express office in Madrid. Amid the buzz of Spanish speakers, we’d heard their American accents and introduced ourselves. The four of us had spent the afternoon together at the Plaza Mayor in an old-world Spanish tavern with dark wooden booths and warm brick walls, eating seafood paella loaded with crustaceans in a huge, flat pan and drinking pitcher after pitcher of fruit-filled sangria. Afterward, we’d grabbed more drinks at a loud and boisterous tapas bar, where Wim had parked himself next to me. We’d remained together for the rest of the evening.
Wim and Max had plans to travel to Portugal later that night, and Shayna and I were scheduled to arrive there two days later. They’d promised to pick us up at a train station in Lisbon.
“I think Wim likes you,” she’d said encouragingly.
“I think I like him too,” I’d responded.
But now I didn’t know what to think.
Perhaps Sh
ayna and I had been insensitive to his money concerns. Still, I hadn’t liked how he’d lost his temper.
And yet I was charmed by his sense of authority. There was something alluring about the way he spoke his mind, the way he was unafraid to express himself.
“Max, your cigarette smoke is making me nauseous,” Shayna said. She cupped her hand over her nose.
Max glanced in the rearview mirror at her and took a long drag of his cigarette. Then he exhaled sharply and flicked the cigarette out the window.
By afternoon we had reached Sagres, the rugged southwestern tip of Portugal, where the four of us spent the afternoon perched on the water’s edge, nibbling on cream tarts, and watching the waves break against the shore.
From the shade of a café umbrella, I watched Wim sip espresso from a white cup so tiny it looked like a toy from a child’s tea set.
At twenty-two, he could have passed for sixteen, with a lean body, a smooth chest, a youthful face, and short brown hair cropped like a shoeshine brush. I felt the urge to run my hand over his head and feel the soft prickle. There was something about the way he sat back in his plastic chair, one leg crossed over the other, taking long drags of his cigarette and observing his surroundings from behind aviator glasses. He was the kind of guy who could quickly identify a bluff in a poker game or hail a taxi with a commanding whistle. He reminded me a little of my dad.
I couldn’t see his eyes, but I sensed he was staring at me from behind his dark glasses.
He finished his drink and reached out his hand to me. I followed him off the terrace and onto a steep, winding path.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
There was a mystique about Wim that made me feel alive. The wind blew against our faces, and my heart pumped harder the higher we climbed.
When we reached the top of the ridge, I stopped to catch my breath. Wim slid his arm around my waist as we looked out at the horizon—a golden beach framed by dramatic, sea-carved cliffs. “This is the end of the world,” he said.