As Long As It's Perfect

by Lisa Tognola

  But on this morning, it wasn’t music that greeted me as I stepped inside. In the middle of the foyer stood a big black mutt—wagging his tail, panting, and staring up at me as if he wondered what I was doing there. I looked around the frat house–like surroundings: a mess of discarded pizza boxes, soda cans, and water bottles were strewn about the house. I looked down the hallway into the kitchen: an array of subcontractors—painters, carpenters, and tile installers—were belching, cursing, and poking fun at each other. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  To my left, carpenters had stationed their sawhorse in the middle of the living room and were applying casing to the living room windows. To my right, boxes filled with toilets and bathroom hardware dotted our congested dining room, which was serving as a temporary warehouse for vanities, faucets, and appliances awaiting their final inspection and subsequent assignment to their designated bathrooms. Boxes of cabinetry as big as coffins sat in the kitchen, unopened, waiting for installation day.

  “Hello?” I called out, to no one in particular. “Does this dog belong to anyone?”

  My eyes scanned the foyer and then the stairway leading up to the second-floor landing, where they settled on what could only be described as a statue of David—a splendid form reflecting the bright sunlight that glanced in from the cupola above and gave the room a warm, sensuous glow. I took in the finely shaped body, chiseled jawline, and mane of thick hair.

  David bounded down the stairs two at a time. We looked at each other for a short moment, and the next thing I knew he was holding me, pulling me in close while together we launched into synchronized motion, dancing cheek to cheek in perfect step across the foyer to the rhythm of two hearts beating as one. I anticipated his dip and locked my leg around his, leaned my body against his chiseled abs as he dropped me low and swayed me in a smooth circle before returning me to an upright position.

  In reality, he detached a dangling cigarette butt from his lips and offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Tommy,” he said. His skin was not smooth and pale like marble. His hand was rough and his face was tan, with the perfect hint of five o’clock shadow. He wore a fitted T-shirt and jeans, and a leather bag hung off his construction-worker hip.

  I stumbled over my words and my feet as I reached to accept his manly grip. “Nice,” I said. “Hi to meet you. I mean, nice to meet you.”

  Why did I feel like a nervous teenager standing before this man nearly twenty years my junior? So what if he looked like a younger version of Daniel Day-Lewis—tall and lean, thick dark hair, dreamy brown eyes outlined by thick eyebrows and a broad chest I longed to snuggle against?

  Tommy cleared his throat. He told me he was there to install our permanent stairway. “This,” he held a palm out, “is Shadow, my dog and work partner.” He gave me a wink, and I felt my heart race as if he’d just proposed. My God, what was happening to me?

  It was strange to have a man who wasn’t the scruffy old guy behind the deli counter at Stop & Shop wink at me. I’d been living in a safe world of moms and kids for over a decade now; I was unprepared to suddenly be dealing with men. Handsome, well-built, charming men. Which begged two questions: Why were guys who work construction always so good-looking? And why were they so deft at flirting? I didn’t know, exactly. What I did know was that it excited me.

  I noticed a leash trailing from Shadow’s collar to a work truck parked out front. I reached out tentatively and brushed the hairy beast with my fingertips. A mass of coarse black hair unleashed itself with tornado-like fury onto my white pants, landing in thick layers. Ordinarily, this would have sent me into a frantic twenty-yard dash to the closest lint roller. But I just smiled sweetly.

  “The baby deer is still in the front yard,” Tommy said.

  I repeated his words silently, looking for clues, but found none. I thought his message might be code for “I want you desperately.”

  When I didn’t respond, he tried again. “There’s a very young fawn curled up under the mulberry bush out front, and it’s been lying there by itself all morning.”

  My heart skipped a beat. Was there anything more appealing than a man feeling protective of a helpless animal?

  A minute later, I was staring down at a fawn that lay all alone in the shrubs, camouflaged by the underbrush, looking very out of place behind the port-a-john. It looked scared. I tried to remind myself that deer always looked scared. I nudged my mind back to the words Tommy had just spoken.

  Deer. Yard.

  Yard. Dear.

  Was Tommy trying to seduce me?

  CHAPTER 29: MEETING BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

  Lexington Ave, Rye – January 2008

  I hadn’t been to the house since drywalling had begun the previous week, and there was Sheetrock and plaster dust everywhere. I started coughing as soon as I entered. The subcontractors worked through it without masks, as if the thick clouds of chalky dust were merely a figment of my imagination.

  Through the dusty haze I spotted Vince, the new site supervisor, who stood passively in the living room, leaning against the wall.

  Somewhere along the line, Vince had replaced Randy, who had stopped showing up to work. That’s when I’d learned that a new home is constructed in stages, with different construction supervisors overseeing each stage. It made me sad that after months of working with Randy, asking and answering myriad questions, mediating arguments, and circumcising cupolas together, I’d never had a chance to say goodbye.

  The end of our relationship harkened back to the feelings of separation anxiety I’d long struggled with—feelings that, over the years, I’d learned were about loss of connectedness. “Abandonment represents a core human fear,” my therapist, Linda, had once explained. “We’ve all experienced it.” Feeling this now, I was reminded of how I could be surrounded by people, even friends and family, and still be lonely.

  I gave Vince a slight wave and walked toward him. Unlike the builder, Brodie, whose gruff and direct manner had always intimidated me, Vince was quiet and shy. Doe-eyed and round in the middle, he resembled a stuffed bear and seemed as harmless as one.

  “We need you to make a decision on the hardware for the French doors,” he said without looking at me as I approached. I noticed that his face was covered in stubbly growth and his wavy brown hair was in need of a trim.

  “I know,” I said, adjusting the unwieldy stack of binders that was weighing down my arms. Choosing door hardware throughout the house had been challenging because every decision was loaded with nuances. Did I want passage handles or handles that locked? Did I want the finish to match the bedroom on one side of the handle and the connecting bathroom on the other? Were levers really the best way to go?

  I was about to refer to my inspiration photos one last time when Luke rounded the corner. “Watch out, Vince, here comes trouble,” he said with a chuckle, playfully shielding himself from me.

  I flashed him a look but smiled inwardly, secretly reveling in the attention. Vince looked uncomfortable.

  Luke smiled at me. “I’m glad you’re here. I have a list of questions for you.”

  “First we need to finish up with the hardware,” Vince said, still without making eye contact, as if being in our presence were unpleasantly intimate. “Do you want the handles on the French doors to match the ones we installed on the other doors?”

  I looked at Luke uneasily. He loved egg-shaped knobs, and I knew he had been disappointed when I’d decided on using levers throughout the house. Though I shared his appreciation of classic architecture, I knew that levers were the easiest, most comfortable way to open a door. With just one finger, or an elbow or hip, I could push open my door without having to set down my groceries or, someday, my cane. Now, with only the French doors remaining, I was tempted to choose egg knobs just to please Luke. But I didn’t.

  “Yes,” I said, feeling like a traitor. “Levers, please.”

  “That’s fine,” Luke said.

  Vince moved on to supervise the drywall laborers, leaving Luke and me alon
e in the living room. It was an unseasonably warm day, and I noticed Luke was wearing shorts and leather flipflops; the outfit made him look so much more relaxed than he had the first time we’d met, when he’d shown up in a suit and tie. I wondered at what point things had grown so casual that shorts had replaced suits, short sleeves had replaced long, and sandals had replaced Oxfords. Probably around the time that “Hi” had replaced “Dear Wim and Janie” in email greetings.

  Despite Luke’s continuing to refer to himself by his first and last name in phone messages, there was no doubt that our relationship had grown increasingly familiar and comfortable over the last few months.

  “Are those anti-preppy shorts?” I said, nodding toward Luke’s Bermuda shorts, which were speckled with embroidered skulls and crossbones, a clear deviation from the polo players adorning most men’s shorts in Rye.

  “Aye.” He grinned mischievously. Luke didn’t fit the typical Rye profile: married, two kids, living in an expensive house and wintering in Naples and summering at the Cape. He had a wife but no children, lived in a modest home in a nearby rural suburb, and was just starting out as an independent architect.

  “Nice.” I smiled. The first time I visited Rye, I’d thought it looked like a place where Ward Cleaver would come home for a five o’clock dinner lovingly prepared by June. Even the tulips lining Main Street looked flawless—frighteningly unreal.

  But that impression had been short-lived. It hadn’t taken me long to discover that the fine image of this small town was all just an act of keeping up appearances. I wanted to assure Luke that Rye residents were more fallible than we appeared.

  I was busy staring at Luke’s shorts and imagining transgressions when he held something up. “This is for you.”

  I stared blankly at the object—a slightly worn canvas carrying bag, brown, with a thick blue stripe down the center—and then at Luke.

  “It was Nicole’s and she doesn’t need it,” he said, making me wonder if his wife knew he was offering me her hand-me-downs. “I’m tired of watching you struggle to carry those.” He pointed to my binders.

  “Thank you!” I said. I was so touched, I didn’t know what else to say. I felt his eyes on me, a look I couldn’t decipher.

  “Here.” He placed his own briefcase down, removed the unwieldy binders from my arms, and placed them in the tote. I slid the nylon straps over my shoulder and hugged the bag close to my body.

  “Thank you,” I said again, wondering whether I should give him a hug.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said.

  For a moment, I wondered if he meant “Don’t mention it to Wim.”

  “So,” he said, clapping his hands together and returning to business. “Let’s take a look upstairs. I need you to approve the crown molding.”

  I started up the stairs, and he followed. My thoughts shifted from the bag to the back of my white jeans—where, I imagined, I had a ring of dirt from leaning against the dusty walls. My mother always used to caution me about buying light-colored pants: “They’re hard to keep clean. And white tends to yellow over time.”

  Suddenly, Luke cursed loudly. He had tripped over the bottom step—the one I had recently told him protruded a bit too far into the entryway—and blood was oozing from his left big toe.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.

  “What architect designed those stairs?” He gave me a wry look.

  “This house was built with blood, sweat, and tears,” I said.

  He chuckled, and I noticed his boyish smile, the way his eyes crinkled like the cellophane edges of an after-dinner mint. “Have you been sheetrocking?” he said, reaching out to brush off my shoulder, sending a cloud of plaster dust into the air. I felt blood rush through my body and my cheeks flush.

  He signaled me to continue up the stairs. We reached the landing and stepped into my daughter’s room.

  “I love it,” I said, eyeing the seven-inch strip of decorative wood hugging the vaulted ceiling. I remembered our visit to a mill one afternoon, just the two of us, to explore crown molding. The mill was bright with light pouring in through the entrance, the air thick with the scent of wood. Luke and I stood side by side, peering up at the samples of molding displayed on the walls.

  It felt oddly exciting, as if we were on a first date.

  Luke began by explaining the different types, how they varied in profile and size. Pointing to the displays, he said that crown molding increased the visual appeal of the walls and provided the illusion of more space. He led me to a rack and pulled out various samples. I already knew a bit about crown molding from watching This Old House, but I listened attentively, enjoying the camaraderie as much as the lesson in architecture. As he held each piece in his hands and pointed out the varying thicknesses and distinguishing edges, I was captivated by his reverence for what he loved.

  Now he said, “I want to show you something else,” and he moved to the other side of Hailey’s room. He entered her walk-in closet; I stood outside the door, waiting.

  “Come on.” He waved me toward him.

  I followed him inside.

  The closet was bright, as the light was designed to turn on automatically when you opened the door—but it still felt awkward standing together in a confined space. The air between us felt warm and dense.

  Then Luke shut the door behind me and everything went black.

  I could sense Luke next to me and I could hear him breathe, but it was so dark we couldn’t even see each other. The scent of him—woodsy and fresh, like lemons and wood shavings—stirred something inside of me that I hadn’t felt in a long time. My palms started to sweat.

  “What do you see?” Luke asked softly, our bodies painfully close.

  “Nothing,” I said, turning in his direction, my lips parting slightly. I felt a rush of anticipation and a pang of desire. My mouth went dry at the thought of him leaning in and brushing his warm lips against mine. I imagined my body pressing against his, running my fingertips through his hair and down the back of his neck. I thought I might collapse.

  It reminded me of the game my friends and I had played in sixth grade—“seven minutes in heaven”—when Steve Doherty and I had stood still in the darkness in Dee Harshorn’s coat closet, both waiting for the other—or for neither—to make a move. It was the first time I’d been alone with a boy, and my heart had fluttered wildly at the newness of it all. I’d wondered if Steve could hear it pounding in my chest. I’d wanted him to make a move toward me, all the while thinking, But what would I do if he actually tried to kiss me?

  Suddenly, Luke opened the closet door. Sunlight flooded in, accompanied by reality.

  Flustered, I glanced at him to see if an awkward moment had passed or if I’d just imagined it. I couldn’t tell.

  “Exactly,” Luke said. He was standing there, looking casual, in his white shirt with the top button open, a hint of chest hair visible. “That’s the disadvantage of having an automatic light. If you install mirrors on the inside of the closet doors as you talked about doing, when your kids shut the door to look in the mirror, the light will shut off and they’ll be standing in the dark.”

  I fidgeted with the handle of my new tote, feeling both disappointed and relieved. I tried to remind myself that, just as in Dee Harshorn’s closet with Steve, nothing had happened. But I worried that my face would betray me, revealing the thoughts I’d had.

  Was my attraction to Luke simply lust—the kind I saw on Wim’s face when he thumbed through my Victoria’s Secret catalogs? Or had the demands of construction made me emotionally vulnerable?

  “You don’t have to do anything about it now,” he said, and he began to explain how I might want to remove the automated closet lighting in the future. But I was only half listening.

  “I’ll have to give that some thought,” I said when he was done talking. Then I picked up my bag and we exited the closet, leaving the door cracked open.

  CHAPTER 30: I WANT MORE SPARKLE

  Lexington Ave, Rye – J
anuary 2008

  Can we place two downlights above my bathroom vanity?” I asked Rick, the electrician, whose eyes were fixed on the set of electrical plans in his hands. Luke was looking at his own notes just outside the bathroom door.

  “You’ve got main overhead, three sconces, and a light-up makeup mirror,” Wim said, “isn’t that enough?”

  “I don’t want shadows,” I said.

  Rick looked up from the plans to the ceiling and then at me. “Vanity lights will flood the room.”

  “It’s just … I want my makeup applied evenly,” I said. But that wasn’t all. I’d known from the moment we decided to build a custom home that I’d have a vanity area just like the one my mother had had. Then, I’d stood beside her, watching her apply peach rouge to her cheeks and coral lipstick to her lips. Now, it was less about making sure my eyeliner was drawn perfectly and more about nostalgic longing. I wanted to recreate the bliss I’d felt as a child, watching my mom put on makeup, feeling safe and beautiful in the embrace of the bathroom vanity and her own vanity, grooming rituals that made me feel special and cared for. I wanted to be able to do it for myself, and maybe my own daughters, in our new house.