by BJ Knapp
Then I spring back onto my feet and into action. My mind starts a fresh to-do list. The house needs to be cleaned from top to bottom, and not the bullshit “hide things when company comes over” kind of clean. I am talking spotless clean. Tim-worthy clean—which is a whole new level of housekeeping. I am sure that, over the years, I have stashed all kinds of random crap in the guest room closets and my office. They all need to be cleaned out to make room for rock star clothing. I try to imagine leather jackets and black T-shirts hanging from the rods. The office bedroom needs a dresser, and I could probably move one of the end tables from the living room into it to function as a night table.
The prospect of finally buying a piece of furniture for this house on my own, without Portia’s input, is delicious. For crying out loud, my name is on the deed, and I feel like I have to ask her permission to buy a piece of furniture! That’s got to stop. I stashed a few storage bins under the guest bed with things like my wedding dress; I need to find a new home for those, as well. Maybe I can get Tim to put those into the attic for me. The ceiling in the office is dingy as hell; it needs to be painted. And I can see the dust marks around the ceiling vent. That’ll take a day or so, once I get all the furniture covered. And at that point, I may as well just do the walls. Hmmm... yellow? I’ve always wanted it to be a bit brighter in here.
Then it hits me as I’m sitting on the day bed in the office bedroom: the first item on the to-do list is to convince Tim. There’s no way that he’ll be as excited as I am, so he needs to see why this is a good idea. I leap back into action when I realize that preparing for our rock ‘n’ roll house guests has to go back even further than I’d initially thought. The number one task is to make Tim’s favorite meal for dinner. I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes the way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach.
I grab my keys off the kitchen counter and notice a book of fabric swatches with a Post-it note stuck to the front that says, Timothy, pick from the colors with the paper clips on them. Kisses, Mother. When did this get here? Does she still have a key from when we went to Florida? I thought Tim got it back from her. And is she redecorating our house? Without my input? I thumb through the swatches she’s selected: beige, taupe, and ecru. No, no, and no—as far as I’m concerned. At least she’s gotten off her all-white kick. Everything in this house is too damned white.
No time for this. I gotta get moving. I jump in the car, and soon I’m speeding down Orchard Street, careening around the corner and into the parking lot of the Stop and Shop. I frantically shove my cart down the aisles and blindly sweep items into it, like risotto, scallops, and lemons. I am sprinting down the produce aisle and nearly take out a toddler who is stooping to pick something off the floor. I mumble an apology to his mother over my shoulder as I clamp my fist onto a bag of salad; I don’t even look at it to see whether it’s browned. In record time, I am swiping my card in the checkout line. Then I scurry out to the car and speed all the way home, my tires squealing a little as I whip into our driveway. Tim will be home late; he has a meeting tonight with Aria after the shop closes. I glance at my watch. I have about an hour to work my mojo and make Hydra’s moving in happen.
In between stirring the risotto and pan-searing the scallops, I scrub the kitchen counters, clean up my collection of shoes by the back door (I can tell the ever-growing pile is starting to annoy Tim), and re-load the dishwasher. I set the table, light candles, and fix Tim a plate. I just barely have time to swipe on a fresh coat of mascara and lip gloss and spritz on his favorite perfume before he walks in the door.
“Mmmm... smells good,” he says. He goes upstairs to change, and I crack open a bottle of white wine that he left to chill in the fridge. He comes back downstairs, freshened up, and I hand him a glass of the wine and pop open a beer for myself.
Time to slow things down a bit. I’ve been frantic for the last hour. Now I need to make this evening all about him. I hand him some water crackers and brie to nibble on, while I plate dinner and carry it into the dining room.
“We’re eating in the dining room tonight?” He follows me in from the kitchen. “What’s the occasion?” He kisses me on the cheek before taking his seat at the table. “Mmmm... You smell good, too.” He squeezes a fresh-cut wedge of lemon over his dish, bites into a scallop, and groans with pleasure. “I just might marry you someday,” he says jokingly.
I dig in to my risotto. “How was the meeting with Aria?” I ask. I’ve been trying hard lately to get over my feelings about her. Nobody likes a jealous wife. I was starting to get irritated with myself, too.
“It was good. The campaign planning stuff is all going so fast. I can’t keep up with her half the time. Is this how your clients feel, working with you on your publicity campaigns?”
“Probably,” I say, laughing. “Amanda has two speeds. Fast and hyper-fast.”
“I can see that.” He bites into another scallop and smiles at me. “This is really nice, Bren. Thanks for making such a nice dinner. It really is great to come home to this. It’s perfectly done.”
I smile at him. It’s nice that he noticed that I worked so hard on this dinner. But I don’t think he knows I have an ulterior motive. I watch him enjoying his meal for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to start the conversation. Maybe, I think, if I stare at him long enough, he’ll ask me what’s going on.
But after a minute of staring, he doesn’t say a word. Now I am waiting for the perfect opening, like, “So, then, how was your day?” And then I could say, “Funny you should ask. I received an interesting proposition today...” I clear my throat, and he looks up at me from his salad. He has to know I have an ulterior motive to have gone to all this trouble.
“Is there something you want to say, Bren?”
I am not sure where to begin, so I just start talking. I am doing exactly the opposite of what I did today in my mock pitch at work. Amanda would kill me if I did this in the Baxter pitch. I don’t even know how long I’ve been talking. “...So, I’m not sure how many people on the crew they’ll bring or if it’ll be just the band or what. But I think we could at least fit the band members upstairs in the bedrooms. We have that daybed and the pull-out underneath it. We’ll probably have to squeeze in a twin bed in the other bedroom—it might get kinda crowded with the queen in there. Maybe we could put the queen in the attic and find two twins for cheap on Craigslist.” I feel like I am rambling out of control, and I know I should stop talking because, if I keep yammering on, I am going talk him out of having Hydra stay here.
He’s not saying anything. I stop talking somewhere after the to-do list for the guest bedrooms. I’ve probably just blown it. He raises his eyebrows at me after I am done speaking. Is he relieved that I am not his campaign manager?
He spears a scallop with his fork, and I can tell he’s overwhelmed by what I’ve been saying. Not a good start. “Whoa. Slow down,” he says. “Start from the beginning. What do you mean, they want to stay here?”
He’s right. Slow down. I need to step back and take another approach. I’ll go for methodical this time around.
“Okay, so the band wants to record at Del’s house, which, as you know, isn’t far from here. They want to stay in our house, because Keith started writing the first song on the album here. He wants to write the rest of the songs here, as well, because that’s an important part of his songwriting process. He does it all in one place.” I watch Tim’s face, trying to pick up any clues about what he is thinking. His expression is frozen on a mixture of analytical and skeptical. I need to get him off skeptical. Okay, let’s bring out the pros.
“How long are they going to stay?” he asks. “A weekend? A few days?”
“I have no idea. But they’re going to pay us $50,000 and hire a housekeeper for the duration,” I say, quoting Erik.
“For the duration? And you have no idea how long that duration is,” he repeats.
He makes a good point. And I can see where he’s going. He hates having houseguests for too long. I need to find a way
to turn this around, but he interrupts my thoughts.
“Bren, I don’t know about this. Don’t you think this is kind of crazy? We don’t know these people. What if they trash our house? Don’t rock stars mess up hotel rooms all the time?” I can tell that his mind has gone right to the stereotypical ‘80s rock stars getting high and lobbing TVs out of high-rise hotel windows. I can also see his mind going to people being in his space for longer than three days, which, I am guessing, is precisely what is now causing that anxious crease between his eyebrows.
“But think about it. We would be part of helping Hydra create something great. What if this is the best album they’ve ever recorded? The album started here when he heard our wind chimes, and they want to finish it here. It messes up their process when they have to make a change, like where they’re living.”
“They can still record the best album ever if they aren’t in our house, Brenda. I don’t know. And that bit about their process is bullshit. They’re professional musicians who’ve toured the world. There’s no way that changing their living situation will mess them up that badly. This is a bad idea. Think about it. We’re going to have four rock stars and their entourages coming and going at all hours. It sounds like it’ll be a major pain in the ass, if you ask me.” He pauses to chew. “And they’re probably messy. They probably won’t give a shit about cleaning up after themselves. I don’t want to live on MTV Spring Break.”
I wait for a few moments before speaking again. We’ve been together for a long time; I know that when he’s making a big decision, he needs a few minutes to let the information sink in.
“They’ll hire a housekeeper for us. We don’t have to worry about the mess.” I lean over my plate and try to soften my approach. “Tim, think about how awesome it would be to contribute to what could possibly be Hydra’s comeback album. We could help them do that.”
My mind drifts to late-night lyric writing sessions with Keith and going to Del’s studio to critique their latest ideas for a song. I can barely contain my excitement. But I need to. I can’t turn this into an emotional conversation. I can appeal to his more practical side—using the money to make home improvements, which will increase the value of our home. The thought of doing that without Portia’s input is so liberating. Maybe I should just go for the gold and tell him how we can invest that $50,000 and diversify our investment portfolio. He loves that shit.
He meets my gaze. My knee is bouncing under the table. I know he can feel it vibrate under his own feet, which drives him crazy when we’re sitting next to each other, but I can’t stop doing it. “Bren, I don’t know. Is this something you really want to do?”
“Yes, I do. I think it’ll be an amazing experience.” I set down my fork. “I watched Keith pull a song out of thin air when I went with him to Del’s house. It was one of the most incredibly creative things I have ever seen. And now I have the chance to experience that every day. I think this is going to be one of those things that I’ll regret if I don’t do it. We have the opportunity to help one of the greatest rock bands of all-time record an album. And just think of the money they’re going to pay us. I mean, it’s a win-win!”
“This goes against my better judgment. I think this is probably a very bad idea. But if it’s what will make you happy....”
I leap from the table before he even has the chance to finish; my chair falls backward and clatters against the floor. He cringes at the noise—I’ve probably just dinged the finish on Portia’s obnoxiously-expensive dining room chair. Then I jump into his arms. “Really? You’re okay with it?”
“No. But yes,” he says, sighing. “You’re going to owe me. Big time.”
“It’ll be great, you’ll see. I think this will be one of those things we’ll look back on when we’re old and be glad that we did it.” I hug him and thank him, and he responds with a distracted “Mm-hmmm.”
I push a scallop around on my plate, my mind immediately going back to the supporting role I will play in the creation of this album. I look across the table at Tim and catch a brief skeptical look cross his face. I look away. I refuse to allow the thought to enter my mind that he might be right and that inviting rock stars to stay in our home may turn out to be more than we’ve bargained for.
Chapter 11
I PACE IN THE KITCHEN and check, again, to make sure the fridge is stocked and the counters are clean.
“What?” Tim asks after he catches me checking inventory in the pantry for the umpteenth time. “Do you think a bunch of gnomes broke in last night and ate all the snacks?”
I crack a smile. “Maybe.” I can tell he’s so over me right now. I am sure I am becoming annoying. I leave the pantry and walk into the kitchen where I catch Tim swiping an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table. “Tim! What the hell! Do you have any idea how long I spent arranging that bowl of fruit?” I pull it all out and start again. “It was perfect! Dammit!” He watches me arrange the fruit. Then a smudge on the front of the stove catches my eye. I grab a dishtowel and some Mr. Clean and get to work on it.
“So, my obsession for cleanliness has finally infected you. I was hoping this would happen. Maybe now you’ll agree to keep the CDs in alphabetical order, like I asked.”
I ignore him and focus on the stove. The band is due to arrive tonight. I’ve spent the last two weeks meticulously preparing everything for their stay, and I still don’t feel ready. I’ve researched popular Australian snacks and stocked the pantry with them. When the Vegemite arrived, after I ordered a half dozen jars from the Internet, Tim and I each scooped out a spoonful of the thick brown sludge, tasted it, and promptly spat it out.
“Really?” Tim asked. “They eat this crap? What the hell is this?” He peered into the jar suspiciously. “I was optimistic, because it looked like Nutella.”
“Apparently they’re raised on it,” I said, “the way we are with peanut butter and jelly.” I screwed the cap back on the jar. “Ugh, not for me.” I took a long sip of water to wash down the salty and bitter flavor.
“I hope they eat all of this,” he said, gesturing to the line of jars in the pantry. “I don’t want to be stuck with this crap. I don’t think the food bank would even take it...”
I am almost done buffing out the smudge when Tim pulls the dishtowel out of my hand and hangs it on the handle on the front of the oven. “Bren, you’re going to be late for work.” He hands me my keys and my lunch. “Get out of here.”
I set them down and continue to work on polishing the stove.
“I should have taken the day off,” I mutter, pacing through the kitchen and stopping to rearrange the flowers on the kitchen table again. I can’t seem to get them to look right, no matter how hard I try. I step back and look at them, still not satisfied.
“And do what?” Tim says. “Climb the walls until they get here? They’re not arriving until late tonight, anyway.” He playfully shoves me toward the door. “You have got to get out of here. Besides, I don’t think those flowers could take any more of your manhandling.” He pulls a wilted daisy out of the side of the arrangement and throws it into the trash. Surprisingly, they look a lot better now, but I fight the urge to move the tall one to the back.
As I pull out of the driveway, I glance back toward my house and try to imagine how it will look to Hydra when they first arrive. From the front, it looks like your normal, oversized center-hall colonial, but yesterday, a work crew came out and erected a half dozen luxury tents in the back yard to accommodate Hydra’s support crew. The strips of forest on either side of our house are fully grown in—because it’s summer—and I know that our neighbors probably won’t see the tents. But I wonder if they’ll suspect something weird is going on at my house. Hydra’s management sent us a crazy-long non-disclosure agreement. I’ve seen enough of these at work to know that, if we tell anyone they’re here, we’re pretty much screwed. And I know Tim won’t want to say anything, because who knows how it’ll affect his campaign if we end up with a crowd of reporters and fans on the front
lawn? That scene would not make Tim a convincing pick for state Senate, would it?
Tim and I checked out the tents when we got home from work yesterday. From the inside, they don’t look at all like tents. They have interior walls that offer each occupant a private space; they have electric lights hanging from the ceiling, powered by extension cords that snake to the house. Most of the tents have two beds in them, but some also have three; I am impressed that they are actual beds and not camping cots.
“How many people are coming again?” Tim asked as his eyes scanned the cluster of tents.
“Well, they have crew,” I said and shrugged.
“How much crew do they have?” he asked, counting on is fingers. “We have six tents here, and four of them have three beds. That’s twelve right there. Then the other two tents have two beds each, so we’re up to sixteen....” He trailed off, deep in thought.
“Well, each band member has an assistant,” I began rattling off. “Then there’s the band manager and his assistant; and we can’t forget the guitar and drum techs. Toni tells me they’re only bringing a skeleton crew.” I laughed. “I wonder what a full-on crew is like.”
We went inside the tent closest to the house.
“This is nice,” I said. I ran my hands over one of the beds. Even the sheets felt luxurious. I tried to guess at the thread count and suspected it was no less than eight hundred. “Maybe we should hire this company the next time we go camping.” I hadn’t even known this sort of thing existed. Is there really a market in Rhode Island for luxury tents? Is this what glamping is? I read an article in one of the gossip mags about how “glamorous camping” is the celebrity rage right now. Tim flopped onto the bed and bounced on it, flicking his eyebrows up and down at me in mock suggestion. “Tim! Get off of there!”
He laughed in response. “Come on,” he said. “How cool would it be to do it in Hydra’s tent? They wouldn’t even know. We could just toss the sheets in the wash, and they’d be none the wiser.” He tugged at me and laughed. Then he looked down, and the skepticism came back on his face. “They’re going to tear the hell out of the lawn, aren’t they?” He sighed and kicked at the tent’s false floor.