The Makeover

by Karen Buscemi

  “Well, it’s not like we have time to go house hunting. The director of the practice wants me to start as soon as possible. Besides, it’s just a rental. Once we get our bearings, we can determine the neighborhood we like and find our own house to buy.”

  “We’re buying a house?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t we? It’s a buyer’s market, and we can use some equity.”

  Camellia looked down at her lap. “It just sounds so...permanent.”

  Henry reached across the table, taking his wife’s hand into his own. “Honey, I’ll make you a deal. If this move doesn’t work out for us, we can come back to New York. Honest. We just have to promise that we’ll give it a chance. Will you give it a chance?”

  Camellia nodded, trying hard to remember that picture she had created of the grand house and the life of leisure. She could give it a chance. She would do it for Henry.

  After dinner, they took a cab to Barneys on Madison Avenue. Camellia was delighted to be back in one of her favorite department stores, surrounded by luxurious designer goods and happy people with platinum cards at the ready. They parted at the front doors and Camellia stayed on the first floor, heading to men’s accessories. She circled the sunglass cases, deciding that life on the water called for a very good pair of designer shades with proper UV protection. The slim, well-dressed salesman kindly extracted pair after pair, even consenting to model the different styles. She decided on a handsome aviator style by Tom Ford, experiencing only minor anxiety as the salesman placed the five-hundred-dollar order on her credit card.

  Camellia found Henry in the jewelry department, accepting a small bag with ribbon poking out the top from an older saleslady with stunning white hair. When he noticed her standing there, he dramatically pretended to stash the bag inside his overcoat. “I knew you’d be here,” she gushed. “I can smell a jewelry purchase from a mile away.”

  “Guilty,” he said, putting an arm around his wife and escorting her to the door. “But you won’t know exactly what it is until Christmas, smarty pants.”

  “Oh no, I have to wait three whole days. I think I can handle it.”

  Henry grinned. “I think you can handle a whole hell of a lot.”

  ELEVEN

  Christmas arrived the way Camellia and Henry preferred, with a light snow falling on the city, and just the two of them at home, enjoying the magical quality of the morning. They sipped French-press coffee in front of the fireplace, the presents from Barney’s set between them.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get a tree this year,” Camellia said, leaning into a leather ottoman.

  “It’s been a rough few months,” Henry conceded. “You were hardly in the spirit, which is understandable.”

  Camellia watched the flames dancing behind the wrought-iron screen, and remembered this would be their last Christmas spent in the apartment. “I wonder if the house in Michigan has a fireplace.”

  “I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Henry pushed a present wrapped in thick striped paper to Camellia. “Why don’t you open your present?”

  She set her cup and saucer on the stone floor in front of the fireplace, and handed Henry his present. “No, you first,” she commanded.

  Henry smiled, turning the rectangular package in his hands. “I can’t imagine what it could be.”

  “Then I guess you better open it.”

  He tore the paper and lifted the lid of the box. “Sunglasses?”

  “Not just any sunglasses,” she replied, cracking open the lid of the case.

  “Oh, nice choice,” Henry said, lifting the glasses and admiring the design.

  “I figured a life on the water required serious shades,” she explained proudly.

  “A life on the water?”

  “Have you any idea how many lakes there are in Michigan?”

  Henry tried on the sunglasses, modeling them for Camellia. “Somebody’s been doing her homework. Are we going to become sailors, then?”

  Camellia thought about that for a minute. How decadent it would be to have their own sailboat, taking little voyages together and making friends with glorious yacht owners. “Maybe we shall,” she said, nodding her approval.

  “I’m so glad you’re getting excited about the move. The truck will be here on the second, so we’re going to need some excitement in our blood to get this apartment packed up in time.”

  Camellia’s expression turned serious. “Aren’t we hiring movers?”

  “Yes, but we still have to be careful with our finances for awhile, and we already agreed to be a little indulgent with Christmas presents. According to our lease, we have to keep paying for the apartment for three more months, and I won’t start getting paid immediately. So we have to box up our own stuff. The movers will get everything into and out of the truck.

  “Fun.”

  “Ah, it will keep us occupied,” Henry said, pushing the sunglasses onto his head.

  “Will it ever.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Sarcasm, let’s settle you down with a present, shall we?”

  Eyes wide, Camellia reached for her present, delicately pulling at the tape. Keeping the paper perfectly intact, she slid it away, revealing a pretty red case. She raised her eyebrows at Henry then opened the lid, revealing a gleaming solid-gold bracelet with a heart attached to it.

  “It’s a charm bracelet,” Henry explained, lifting it from the case and attaching it to her outstretched wrist. “The heart represents my love for you. As we venture into this new chapter of our lives, I’ll add charms to the bracelet that represent all the good things we find along the way.”

  “Henry,” Camellia said softly, her eyes filled with tears. “You are the sweetest man I have ever known.” She pressed her weight into him, kissing him deeply. He pulled her on top of him and ran his hands down her backside, pressing her against his erection. Within seconds, he had her undressed and pinned beneath him on the plush rug. She giggled from the tickle of the rug against her bare skin, and spread her legs to welcome Henry inside her, which was as warm and inviting as the dancing fire.

  They spent the week between Christmas and New Year’s taping together boxes Henry had ordered from the moving company and thoughtfully placing their lives into them. They split up the duties, with Henry focusing on the kitchen, and Camellia dealing with their master closet and bathroom. Before tackling the closet, Camellia perched on one of the oversized leather cubes positioned in the center of the space and surveyed her collection.

  The closet was a fashion-lover’s dream, with floor-to-ceiling white cabinetry, soft shelf lighting, and a dazzling chandelier. Her collection was well edited: classic suiting and day dresses mixed with eye-catching cocktail wear and couture gowns. And then there were the bags and shoes. Every style, by every major designer, in every color was lined up in perfect rows for easy viewing. Henry’s section was just as impressive, with numerous suits, trousers, and button-downs hanging perfectly over two rows of shining shoes; his T-shirts and sweaters folded neatly in a tall shelving unit. Even though she had spent years getting dressed in this closet, it still took her breath away each time she turned on the light and stepped inside.

  She sighed and dragged in a large packing box, grateful Henry had thought to order wardrobe boxes so she could leave the majority of her clothing on hangers, saving her hours of folding and steaming time. Only her sweaters, lingerie, and accessories would need to go into regular boxes.

  Twenty-four wardrobe boxes later, the hanging section of the closet was packed, save for a grouping of outfits she had set aside for Henry and her to wear during their last days in the apartment. Already exhausted, she retied the silk scarf that was covering her hair and wandered toward the kitchen to check on Henry’s progress. She found him in the living room, reclining on the sofa with a glass of beer in hand and the Giants game on the television. “Slacking off, I see?”

  “Done, my dear. How about you?”

  “You’re done? With the whole kitchen? How is that possible?”<
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  Henry took a long drink of his beer and looked at his wife quizzically. “It’s been five hours,” he said, his eyes never straying from the game. “And those kitchen boxes were fantastic. Little spots for the glasses to go so they don’t have to be wrapped. Same for the plates. Really made it simple. Yes! First down.”

  With Henry’s full attention back on the game, Camellia headed to the kitchen to see for herself. Sure enough, the cabinets were bare, and boxes were stacked everywhere, with only a narrow path to the refrigerator left open. She opened the refrigerator, feeling famished, and pulled out a couple of cheese hunks and went into the pantry for some crackers. They were packed. She opened the silverware drawer for a knife. That was packed. Every last plate was packed, too. And there were no paper goods to be found. With a noisy exhale, she threw the cheese back into the refrigerator and headed back to the closet. “Real thorough packing job, Henry,” she muttered as she passed through the living room, Henry too focused on the football game to respond.

  By moving day they were done and barely able to put one leg in front of the other, their bodies aching from all the bending and lifting. Henry had rented an SUV for them to drive, which was packed with more urgent personal belongings, including Camellia’s laptop and a bag filled with toiletries, just in case the moving truck broke down en route. Henry planned to keep the car for a week, until he could buy them their own. Camellia hoped Henry also planned on taking care of all the driving. A road trip was not the right time to revisit the lessons learned in driver’s education.

  It took the movers until early afternoon to get all the boxes and furniture out of the apartment. Henry had positioned himself outside near the back of the truck, making sure their possessions made it safely onto the vehicle. Camellia, however, didn’t know what to do with herself. The movers didn’t require any direction, the four young, able-bodied men huffing in and out of the apartment, careful not to nick the walls as they maneuvered bulky tables and dressers and chairs out the door with ease. As the day progressed, there were less places to sit, and no place to escape. Finally, she took the elevator down to wait with Henry. When the door opened at the lobby, Tray was waiting.

  “Cammie!” he shrieked with mock joy, taking in her simple road-trip outfit of tailored Capri pants, cashmere sweater, and ballet flats. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving us.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Tray, I’m busy,” she replied gruffly. She tried to pass by, but he blocked her way.

  “What’s the matter, Cammie? No one in New York wants to hire you?”

  Camellia felt her blood pressure rise. She wondered if she were to hit him square in the jaw, what he could possibly do to harm her more than he already had. An assault charge would be the least of her worries. “Get out of my way,” she seethed, “or I’ll scream.”

  Tray doubled over with fits of laughter, slapping his leg overdramatically. “That’s rich,” he crowed, and then leaned in close. “That’s the only thing rich about you, though, isn’t it? An overpaid editor-in-chief who doesn’t listen to her boss learns just how quickly the money runs out, doesn’t she?”

  Camellia let out a long, high-pitched scream that sent Tray tumbling into the elevator and a handful of building staff running in her direction. “Are you okay, Miss?” the doorman asked, whipping out a cell phone from his jacket pocket to call for help.

  Camellia nodded, and turned to Tray, who looked like a deer in headlights at the very back of the still-open elevator, Camellia’s foot strategically holding the door in check. “I always do what I say I will,” she said, her voice a mixture of pluck and loathing. “And mark my words, darling Tray: My comeback will make you regret the day you tossed aside Camellia Rhodes.” She excised her foot from the elevator door, and watched with pleasure as Tray Mathers disappeared from view.

  TWELVE

  “You actually said ‘Mark my words?’ Damn, I can’t believe I missed it!” Henry proclaimed, as he navigated the Manhattan traffic en route to the Lincoln Tunnel.

  Camellia sat beside him in the rented Range Rover, beaming over both her performance and Henry’s enthusiastic approval. “You should have seen his face,” she mused. “If he could have pushed his way through the steel wall of that elevator, he would have.”

  Henry patted her hand. “You always did know how to make an exit.”

  The plan was to take Interstate 80 across Pennsylvania and Ohio, then head north on 75 to reach their destination in Michigan. It would take about fourteen hours, including stops for food and to stretch their legs. The moving van was scheduled to arrive the following morning. Henry had picked up an air mattress and packed pillows and blankets so they could get a few hours of sleep before unpacking began.

  The journey was more fun than Camellia had expected. She hadn’t been on a road trip since she went with her parents to the Poconos for a long weekend camping trip the day after graduating from high school. It was their idea of a graduation present: cramped sleeping in a too-small tent with fishing and hiking the daily activities. It was her worst nightmare, complete with swarms of mosquitoes and a mild case of poison ivy. For Camellia, it was proof positive her parents didn’t understand her at all.

  Now with Henry, the mood was light, in a luxurious vehicle with old ‘80s songs on the satellite radio, and a venti cappuccino in her hands. Snow covered the Pennsylvania mountains, but the roads were clear, making the drive as beautiful as it was peaceful.

  They stopped for a late dinner north of Pittsburgh at a charming café with lace curtains and a stocked pie rack. Camellia ordered a big leafy salad so she wouldn’t feel too guilty about the slice of key lime pie she was eyeing.

  “We’re not going to get in until around four in the morning, so you might want to nap once we’re back in the car,” Henry suggested, pouring a pitcher of gravy over an oversized pile of homemade mashed potatoes. Camellia shook her head. “You don’t want to sleep?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t understand how you can eat like that and never gain a pound,” she muttered, stabbing at a spinach leaf.

  “Good genes,” he replied, lifting a forkful of potatoes to his mouth. “Can you imagine, with my ability to stay slim and your ability to always look fabulous, how gorgeous our baby will be?”

  “Oh Henry, are you pregnant?” Camellia questioned. “You won’t be skinny for long.”

  “Come on, you have to admit, we’ve got some good DNA between us.”

  Camellia set down her fork and crossed her arms. “You don’t think for one minute, now that you got me out of New York, that I’m going to transform into your little stay-at-home baby-making machine, do you?”

  “Of course not. But damn, Camellia, we’ve been married for eight years. Isn’t it about time?”

  She sighed. It wasn’t that she didn’t like babies, or that she was completely opposed to the idea. They probably would have beautiful children. And Henry would make a wonderful father, she had no doubt. But when it came to picturing herself as a mother, Camellia got cold feet. Her own mother had been devoted to her and yet had zero idea who Camellia was – not then or now. How would she do with her own child? And then there was the issue of her career, or more appropriate, her need to build a new career. Now that she was back at the bottom again, with a looming climb in front of her, how would a child figure into her plans to fight her way back to the top? And once she was traveling to fashion weeks and fundraising galas again, who would look after the baby? Henry’s job would be keeping him busy, leaving their baby in the care of a nanny. How would she feel about someone else raising her child? She couldn’t help but feel paralyzed by the thought of fitting a baby into her world.

  “I’ll think about it, okay?” she finally said. Henry flashed her a look that made her realize her husband no longer believed her when it came to this subject. “I promise,” she reaffirmed. “I really will think about it.”

  Camellia pushed the leafy salad about her plate with her fork, her chest heavy as her mind pushed around a lingering thought s
he couldn’t shake.

  “What is it?” Henry’s eyes were concerned.

  She set down her fork and put her hands in her lap. Her eyes were downcast. “Henry, why do you put up with me?”

  “Because I love you,” Henry replied without missing a beat.

  Camellia looked up at him. “That’s a little simplistic, don’t you think? I’m a workaholic who spends money like water and expects everyone to do what I want, including you. I’ve set aside your requests to start a family again and again and again.” Her expression was pained, her eyebrows knit tight. “How can anyone love a person like that?”

  Henry wiped his mouth on his napkin and folded his arms on the table. His expression, surprisingly, was one of amusement. “If you’re asking me if you drive me crazy, the answer is a resounding yes.”

  Camellia’s mouth dropped open at her husband’s frankness. “Henry, I–“

  “Let me finish,” he interrupted.

  Camellia fell silent, her eyes once again staring into her lap.

  “You are a strong, fiercely independent woman who knows what she wants. I knew that from the moment I met you. That’s exciting. Challenging, too. Compromise isn’t easy with you.” Camellia crossed her arms as Henry continued. “Over the years you’ve had to build a tough shell around you to protect you from the negativity that comes from having such a high-level, highly public job. I get that. However, at some point, you stopped remembering that you don’t need that shell protecting you from your personal life. But none of this changes my love for you. You’re the one I’ve always wanted, Camellia. You may drive me crazy, but there’s no one I’d rather have doing it.”

  “I’ve been a real shithead,” she said as two tears slid down her cheeks. She brushed them away while blinking back the brigade still threatening to fall. “Henry.” She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, as if preparing to leap from a cliff. “I have to tell you something that I did. Or almost did.”