Looking at him now, his face flushed with the emotion of his conversation with the other broker, Elizabeth finds herself thinking of that weird day, three weeks ago, when Teddy was apparently drugged by an irate about-to-be-ex-girlfriend. He’s never mentioned a peep since then about the incident, and thankfully everything seems back to normal.
He quickly explains now that a famous newscaster who has her West Village town house for sale is scheduling showings and refusing to leave while prospective buyers are there. It makes everyone completely uncomfortable. Rolling his eyes, he says to Elizabeth, “I love celebrities as much as anyone, but they sure can be prima donnas sometimes.” As if she doesn’t know. She’s thinking now of a member of an iconic girls’ group, who, while looking at a quadruplex at the Beresford on Central Park West long ago, tossed her floor-length mink to seven-year-old Kate to carry—a coat so heavy it almost knocked her little girl over! And then there was the movie star who wanted park views from his bed, so he insisted on lying down in the master bedroom of each property he looked at, testing to make sure he could see the park. Not that any seller wouldn’t be thrilled to find him in his or her bed! Elizabeth always said, giggling. And she will never forget the crowd-pleasing Academy Award–winning actor and client whom she brought to one of her own listings, a co-op owned by her friend Dominique—an exceptionally stunning divorcée in a low-cut black dress who was clearly hot to trot the moment the actor showed up on her doorstep with Elizabeth. The Academy Award winner took one look at Dominique and invited her to join him as he went from one showing to the next with Elizabeth. “Just let me grab my coat,” she told him, and when Elizabeth tried to phone her for three days in a row after that, there was no answer. Dominique and the Academy Award winner had, she later learned, checked into a hotel for “an unforgettable three days and nights” of a word Elizabeth wouldn’t repeat.
Sitting once again at her desk in her glassed-in office, Elizabeth informs the sellers (both of them oral surgeons with offices in midtown) of the 72nd Street duplex that they have a $2.8 million offer on their $3.2 million apartment.
“Uh-huh,” Lara Kennish says, clearly disappointed. “I’ll have to talk to Edward about it and see if he thinks we should even counter.”
“I strongly recommend that you do,” Elizabeth says. “It’s our first offer, and they will come up.”
“Well, fine, but there’s something I need to tell you. If we’re actually able to make a deal with these people, we won’t be able to close for at least seven or eight months. And that’s because I promised my daughter last week that she’d have the apartment to come home to from college until next Christmas. I just never thought it would sell so quickly. And also, the whirlpool bath isn’t really working. I had an estimate for repairing it and was told that putting in a new system would cost several thousand dollars. We don’t want to spend the money on fixing it, so you’re going to have to inform the buyers that they’ll be responsible for getting it taken care of. Also, the thing in the dishwasher where you put the soap won’t stay closed, and the stove has a missing knob that I can’t replace. So the buyers will have to take care of that as well.”
Oh, please, Elizabeth thinks to herself, looking for a nail file in her drawer.
“Lara,” she says, “very few people will agree to an eight-month closing. These people are in a rental that they can’t renew, and they want to close in about three months, which is what is normal in a co-op. Perhaps we can push it to four, but I can’t imagine that anyone buying your apartment will want an eight-month closing. Can’t you tell your daughter you’ll have a fabulous new home for her to be in before Christmas?”
“Well, our board is very difficult, it may take them a very long time to approve them, and I may just—”
“Lara,” Elizabeth says before she can continue, “why don’t you just speak to Edward and get me a counter, and then we can negotiate the closing. I’m sure for the right price we can make it work, okay?”
Lara falters for a moment and then says, “The buyers need to know that they might have to get a new dishwasher.”
Elizabeth sighs. “Why don’t you discuss the offer with Edward, and I’ll give you a call this evening, okay? Let’s not worry about the dishwasher now.”
When she hangs up, she calls Roger.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m walking into Michael’s for lunch with two clients, so I only have a second. Did you get them?”
“I talked to the wife, and she wants more time before closing—don’t ask how long, I’m working on them. She’s going to speak with her husband, but the close date will become a matter of price. They’re going to have to come up significantly, especially if they want them out in three months or so.”
“Give me a hint?” Roger says.
“It’s going to have to end up with a three in front of it, certainly.”
“I know. They’ll come up,” Roger promises.
“Good,” Elizabeth says. “You’re my favorite broker to do a deal with,” she adds. And with that, they hang up.
At 3:30 her Mercedes S550 arrives, driven by Dave, the family’s favorite driver at Chauffeurs Unlimited, a company the Chases use to drive their car; he’s a gangly twenty-three-year-old graduate of Swarthmore who’s trying to figure out what to do with his life.
“Hello, ladies,” he says as they all climb into the car. Elizabeth finds him charming and unassuming; he reminds her a little of Jonathan.
“So what do you think, FDR Drive?” Elizabeth says.
“You bet,” Dave says.
At ten minutes to four, Elizabeth and her daughters are standing in front of a steel-and-glass structure just off the Bowery. Because the neighborhood is still a bit iffy, the building, despite being exquisite to the eye, still has half its apartments remaining to be sold. But then again, the slowed economy has something to do with the slowdown of sales as well. Since it’s a buyers’ market lately, a more established location that guarantees a stronger possibility of resale has become even more vital than space and comfort.
Elizabeth’s clients are a young couple living in what they’d described to her as a cookie-cutter two-bedroom in a postwar building on the Upper West Side. They’re looking for something larger and more interesting: the husband is a hedge fund manager, and the wife a graphic designer. They are the sort of people who claim to be less conscious of neighborhood (“We make a location,” they said, “the location doesn’t make us”) and more interested in space and character, particularly the wife, who works from home. They’ve told Elizabeth that they want to see everything everywhere before they make up their minds.
Soon Elizabeth and her daughters and the listing broker, Christopher McKinnon, a tall, lanky, slightly sweaty dark-haired thirty-five-year-old man who happens to be one of Teddy’s principal rivals from LEX, are standing in the lobby, waiting to go up to one of the most desirable three-bedroom apartments in the building. Even the lobby feels like a glass pyramid: floor-to-ceiling window, an enormous skylight where you can actually watch the clouds moving.
Christopher turns to Elizabeth. “If you like, I’ll just give you the keys and let you show, since you know the apartment so well. And I’ll be on my cell if you want me to come up and answer any questions.”
Elizabeth thinks, just for a moment, that she notes something odd in his manner, but then perhaps it’s just that she’s never particularly liked him. Kate and Isabel excuse themselves to look at some of the building’s other model apartments, as they have so many downtown clients and always love to tell someone, “I know a building and you will love it,” or “No, that’s not for you—it’s beautiful but so cold.”
Elizabeth’s clients the Wolcotts arrive at precisely four o’clock. Todd Wolcott, short and stocky, is wearing a dark Valentino suit that makes him look thinner than he actually is. Naomi, his wife, is elegantly dressed in a black jacket and skintight black jeggings. They get in the elevat
or and go up to the fourteenth floor, where the elevator opens directly into the living room.
“I love all this glass,” Naomi is saying.
“Definitely! I get a good feeling here,” Todd says, and his excitement is palpable. Then again, the Wolcotts have gotten excited over many other apartments she’s shown them and ultimately decided for one reason or another that they weren’t for them. Some clients fall in love at first sight, then “out of sight, out of mind.” The Wolcotts are, unfortunately, such clients.
“You can see the bridges from every room,” Elizabeth tells them, pointing out the Brooklyn and Williamsburg and Manhattan bridges from the master bedroom windows. “And you can imagine the views at night when you see all the magnificent lights of the city,” she adds.
“Love the skylight in the bedroom,” Todd says a few minutes later. “And that no one else is above you here.”
“Well, the bathrooms are disappointing,” Naomi says, “quite simple, and not in a good way. The finishes don’t seem very high-end, though I guess that’s easy to change.”
“The kitchen is amazing,” says Elizabeth. “Let’s go see that.” And she shows them the enormous open kitchen, all top appliances, limestone counters. Happily, the Wolcotts agree.
The two additional beds are off the living room—not ideal for a family, but perfectly suitable for the Wolcotts, who need an office and an “extra room” (it seems that these days everyone in New York needs an extra room). Naomi is already determining which of the two will be hers—she wants the one with the most morning light, since that is when she does most of her work.
The three stand together in the eighteen-by-eighteen-foot living room with its fourteen-foot ceilings, and there is a moment of contemplation.
Todd is the first to speak. “It’s a great apartment. It’s almost exactly what we want, but you know . . . I know the neighborhood is up and coming, but it’s not there yet. And that makes me a little nervous.”
Elizabeth pauses, and then says, “I know that location isn’t a priority for you, and the truth is, there’s generally better value to be had in a neighborhood that hasn’t yet arrived. This apartment in Tribeca or SoHo would be about ten to twenty percent more expensive.”
“I know, I just thought neighborhood wouldn’t make a difference if we were really wowed—” Todd says.
“We are pretty wowed,” his wife corrects him, sweetly but firmly.
Now is Elizabeth’s moment. “Well, here’s the thing. I used to not get the East Village. I had a friend who bought an apartment on 3rd Street . . . for virtually nothing. A big one-bedroom. I told her the neighborhood would eventually come up. At the time, I thought: five years, maximum. But I was wrong. She held on to it for six and then sold it for what she paid for it. But two years after that, the apartment tripled in value.”
“Yes, but now that the bubble’s burst—” Todd says.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a bubble,” Elizabeth points out. “The market has already rebounded a lot, and the truth is, the lower end was hit the hardest—the two-and-a-half-million-dollar-and-up apartments are still pretty strong.” She pauses and puts her bag down on the oak floors. “Plus, this neighborhood has already changed a lot—Dean & DeLuca is two blocks away, Whole Foods is opening up a few blocks farther. Three years from now, this area will be a different place and a different price.”
The Wolcotts exchange a glance. Todd shrugs and says, “You’re right.” He gazes at his wife, who nods her head. “We’ll think about it seriously and let you know.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth says, and presses the elevator button. Soon the couple is gone.
As she walks toward the girls, who are on their BlackBerries on a sofa in the lobby, Christopher McKinnon reappears. “How did it go?” he asks Elizabeth. “What did your clients think?”
“They love it,” she says. “Their only issue, which I’m sure you’ve heard before, is the neighborhood.”
“Well, you should know that I have another very interested party, and the apartment may be gone in a day or so.”
“I’ll be sure to let the Wolcotts know,” Elizabeth says, and nods her head toward the door to motion the girls to get up.
Christopher offers a smug, ingratiating smile. “Always a pleasure to see you and your gorgeous daughters, Elizabeth,” he says. “I’d love to do a deal with you.”
“Well, thank you, Christopher,” Elizabeth says, and the three Chase ladies click-clack off in their four-inch heels.
“We haven’t all been together downtown in a while,” Isabel says. “So let’s go to Balthazar for a snack.”
“Yes!” Kate says, “French fries and bloodys!”
“Just what I need after that lunch!” says Elizabeth. “My fingers are already so blown up, I won’t be able to get my rings off tonight!”
“Oh, we’ll split one order,” says Kate, “and you can skip dinner.” They see Dave stopped at a red light and walk toward the black Benz.
“Dave, a quick stop before we go back uptown,” Elizabeth says. “We’re going to 80 Spring Street.”
The three Chase ladies sit down at a burgundy banquette by the bar. Isabel and Kate get up to use the ladies’ room, and Elizabeth takes a moment to check her messages at the office. As she is dialing the number on her purple cell phone, she hears a male voice that she knows as well as her own heartbeat. Jonathan saunters through the door, in a Ralph Lauren navy blazer and faded jeans (always too big—“It’s the look, Mom,” he tells her every time she points it out); as usual, there’s a baseball cap on his head—this time a Superman one—and ear buds in place with the latest iPod dangling out of his back pocket as he listens to hip-hop. He always has the air of looking slightly, adorably disheveled, as if you’ve caught him off-guard, but he is completely prepared. He drops his worn black bag with his laptop, the only thing he carries, at his feet, which are in one of the dozens of pairs of sneakers he owns—like his mother and sisters, Jonathan is a shoe collector. This particular pair is a navy suede Nike with a white swoosh, totally classic.
The unexpected sight of her rangy, darkly handsome son fills Elizabeth with utter happiness.
“Oh, my God, Jonathan, what are you doing here?” she says.
“I had to fly in for the afternoon for a meeting with HBO. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to surprise you,” Jonathan says, pulling the iPod earphones out of his ears as his sisters walk back in. “Kate and Isabel told me you’d all be down here. So after my meeting was over, I just hopped on the subway, and here I am!” He grins and gives his mother and sisters a hug. No one hugs like Jonathan, they always say—he gives enormous, larger-than-life teddy bear hugs.
Elizabeth laughs, now knowing the real reason why Kate and Isabel wanted to tag along: to see their mother’s rapturous surprise when Jonathan unexpectedly walked through the door. As close as she is with her daughters, there is something different about her relationship with her son, the baby of the family, something that makes her the absolute happiest when she sees it’s Jonathan calling on her phone, or Jonathan who wants to go to dinner with the family, Jonathan who wants her to come shopping with him for a new Polo button-down for a date.
Waving a manila folder, Jonathan says, “Hey, guess what, I got a commitment. It looks like all I have to write is a few more episodes, and HBO might—if I’m really lucky—actually develop my series!” He grins sheepishly, his ruddy cheeks glistening.
There is a moment of stunned silence, and then the family begins clapping. With the encouragement of Isabel’s good friend from Penn, Maria Slavit, whom Jonathan had interned with at HBO the previous summer, he’s been working till 4:00 a.m. every night at school on an Entourage-like comedy about New York college students in Atlanta missing the comforts of home—like good bagels and good pizza, and food that is delivered in fifteen minutes—aptly titled From New York.
“It’s just a
n agreement to develop my idea. But it’s pretty amazing, right?”
“HBO!!” Elizabeth insists.
“It’s cool,” he says, smiling, “I know. Can you imagine, my writing may be on HBO one day.”
An hour later, after a few orders of French fries and a cheeseburger for Jonathan, who hadn’t eaten lunch, they are all outside waiting for Dave to pull up. “Are you girls coming home with me?” Elizabeth asks, but they tell her they are going to look at a loft on Spring Street and that they will see her later at her apartment for “movie night.”
“Jonathan, are you staying?” they ask.
“I wish I could, but I have to go back to study—I have my econ final and a paper due for creative writing on Friday.”
The girls think back to the first parents’ visiting weekend at Emory, when Jonathan was a freshman. They had flown down to Atlanta for the weekend, and stayed at the Ritz-Carlton in Buckhead, which was just divine. Jonathan drove them around in his black SUV Benz—his Horace Mann graduation gift—and they listened to Billy Joel nonstop with the windows wide open. They remember seeing his freshman dorm room—huge! terraces!—in a Melrose Place-type development with a swimming pool, nothing like where Kate and Isabel had lived in West Philadelphia. And Jonathan’s adorable roommate Corey Cohen, the two of them with their Sopranos and Curb Your Enthusiasm posters scattered among half-finished bottles of Grey Goose and Gatorade. It was one of those magical weekends that they knew they would remember their whole lives.
Dave honks and snaps them back to New York City. “Love you, Jonathan,” they say together, “speak to you later,” and each of them puts an arm up for a taxi.
Then Dave takes Elizabeth and Jonathan uptown. He will drop Elizabeth and then take Jonathan to LaGuardia.
As Elizabeth gets out in front of their home, Jonathan opens up the window and screams, “Love you, Mom!! I’ll be back before you know it.”
Elizabeth has several phone calls to make once she gets home, one to the broker whose clients outbid their competitors for her listing on the East 93rd Street town house, about to have a building inspection, but somehow she’s feeling exhausted and just wants to sit on the sofa with the girls—Lola, Dolly, and Roxy—thinking about how wonderful it was to be surprised by Jonathan today. She calls Tom to see where he is; it’s almost six o’clock, and he’s usually home by now.
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