If You Were Here: A Novel

by Jen Lancaster

  “The place was insane,” I tell them. “But then we ran into the owner’s teenage daughter up in the third-floor library loft, working on her computer. The Realtor congratulated her on the nice job she’d been doing, which Mac and I didn’t understand.

  “As soon as we got down to the second level, the Realtor leaned in to us all conspiratorially and mentioned that the daughter had been industriously listing the family’s possessions on Craigslist and eBay. Turns out the bank was allowing the foreclosed family to live in the house until they found a buyer, and the kid was trying to raise cash to help with moving expenses.”

  Kara inadvertently clutches her chest. “Oh, God.”

  “Yeah,” I continue. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Yo, kid, sorry your dad lost his empire. Pack up all your gymnastic medals and shit, because I’ma keep my Barbie collection in your room!’ I mean, maybe we’re fools for not jumping on the opportunity, but we couldn’t do it.”

  “Of course you couldn’t,” Kara confirms.

  “Chef ’s kitchen?”Tracey asks.

  “The kitchen alone was a thousand square feet, with furnituregrade cabinets, and they weren’t messing around with some rinkydink Wolf stove. Oh, no, they had a freaking AGA cooker. And there was a TV in the fridge door.”

  “How many bathrooms?” Tracey prompts.

  “Five full, three half. And one of them had an onyx countertop. Ridiculous.”

  Tracey toys with her spoon before placing it by the side of her plate. “Did it have a wet bar?”

  “One on the main level, a full bar in the walkout basement, and a bar area with the outdoor kitchen by the pool’s waterfall.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Tracey smirks. “You made the right choice.” She doesn’t gloat and exclaim, “Team City!” like she normally does. She doesn’t have to.

  “My point is, we need to find something soon before I shoot Vienna in her hair extensions,” I say.

  “Accidentally, of course,” Kara adds.

  “Yeah.” I snort. “Accidentally. Get this—she’s aware of the problems we have with gangs in the neighborhood. And she realizes we trend a tiny bit militia and we’re always on high alert, right?”

  “Is it just exhausting to be you sometimes?” Tracey asks.

  I glance over at Tracey and answer her honestly. “Sometimes. Anyway, Mac’s fairly serious about hitting the gym before work ever since he saw himself in that three-way mirror at Bloomingdale’s. So last week, it’s about four thirty a.m., and he’s just about to go out the back door when he hears noises up front. Right as he gets to the front door, it swings open and Vienna staggers in wearing this ridiculous pink chinchilla bolero. Mac is all,‘Can I help you?’ And she slurs, ‘I’m here to show the house,’ and then he notices a drunken guy in tow. I guess she met him at a club and he wanted to see the house she had for sale. When Mac yelled at her—and believe me, there was yelling—she was all, ‘It’s my house and I’m allowed to be here!’ The whole situation kind of devolved from there, and when Vienna finally left, Mac honestly couldn’t figure out whether she was that stupid or that arrogant.”

  Tracey quips, “Can’t it be both?”

  “Ooh,” Kara squeals. “I saw her in that exact coat in OK! when I was at the nail salon last month. Wow, times must be tough for her if she’s recycling her outfits.”

  “Really?” I ask. “That’s your takeaway from this situation?”

  Kara’s suddenly sheepish. “Oops, sorry. What are you gonna do?”

  I shrug. “We keep searching. I don’t care if we have to look at every house in the AC; we are moving there.”

  “Thanks for coming with us. These places are starting to blur together and we’re at the point where we’re having trouble keeping them straight,” Mac says. Tracey’s accompanying us to a house we saw earlier this week. We feel like it has potential because of a couple of key features, but want a second opinion from a trusted adviser. She’s up front with him, as we both hope to gauge her first reaction of the house when we drive up.

  “Here’s the thing, Trace,” I begin. “When Liz showed us this place, she said, ‘A house like this takes a specific buyer.’ ”

  Tracey’s mom is a Realtor, so she knows all the code words, like how “cozy” means “microscopic” and “conveniently located” means “freeway-adjacent.” “So you want me there to help you determine whether the home’s tackiness is superficial or goes all the way down to the bone.”

  “Bingo. I guess because my taste trends a bit juvenile when it comes to decorating I can’t get a bead on this place. I’m not sure if the house is over-the-top or really elegant,” I reply. Tracey has exquisite taste in antiques, 44 so I will absolutely do as she advises.

  Because I grew up in a house that was so austere, I have trouble determining what’s stylish in terms of interiors. I’ve seen tons of television shows where designers demonstrate how to replicate a high-end piece with a low-cost improvisation, and I almost always prefer the inexpensive knockoff. So I figure if we’re going to make the biggest investment of our lives, I don’t want to discount a place for being gaudy when it’s actually gilded.

  After we get off the highway, we wind down a couple of wooded lanes on the way to our potential street.

  “Great neighborhood so far,” Tracey tells us, as we pass a couple of lovely Arts and Crafts–style homes with stunning river-rock stone supports, exposed roof rafters, and wide triangular eaves. One of them has the most gorgeous stained-glass windows I’ve ever seen, all done up in brown and gold florals. Tracey amends her approval with, “I mean, if you have to move to the suburbs.”

  We pass a number of houses running the gamut from cute to spectacular. “I like that one a lot,” I say, pointing out the Prairie-style place with tons of symmetrical clerestory windows as we round the corner to the listing. “It’s so, like, Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  “You ought to research that address—Wright built many homes up here. That may be one of his actual designs,” Tracey tells me.

  Mac replies, “Cool,” and slows as we approach the circular stone driveway. Tracey’s not looking at what might be our house, because her attention has been drawn to the massive Shingle-style home across the street.

  “How fabulous is that?”Tracey crows about the home’s elegant, understated simplicity. “It’s like a perfect beach house all tucked away here back in the woods. This is my favorite kind of home. Did you know Shingle style was the backlash to all those fussy Victorianstyle places at the turn of the century? I bet those shingles are made of white cedar, because—” And that’s when Tracey realizes we’ve parked.

  “We’re here,” Mac tells her. He and I both hold our breath while we anticipate her initial reaction.

  Tracey leans forward to peer through the windshield.

  “Oh, sweet mother of Jesus.”

  Mac and I exchange glances in the rearview mirror. I was bracing myself for that reaction, as this house definitely doesn’t look like anything else in the neighborhood, with its modern twist on French Provincial architecture. The house is massive gray stucco with a high hip roof, lots of balustrades, and matching twin chimneys. The windows are tall and paned, cutting into the cornices, and their shape is outlined by continual lines of raised molding. The whole house is balanced and symmetrical and . . . a tad dramatic.45

  “Is the entry over-the-top?” I ask. Part of me already knows it is, and yet the part of me from a crappy Indiana ranch house can’t help but being impressed.

  “Just a little,” Tracey agrees; then she points to the oversize cement urns flanking either side of the door. “Also, the owners need to get Sabrina Soto on the phone stat to talk about staging. Because nothing says ‘million-dollar home’ more than four dollars’ worth of plastic plants spray-painted green.”

  We knock and then let ourselves in, where Liz awaits.

  Last time we were here it was overcast and gray and we didn’t get a great look at some of the rooms because it was so dark. We struggled unsuccessfully wi
th the lights in the foyer, so we didn’t experience the fully lit impact of it until now.

  “Hey, you figured out the switches,” Mac comments.

  “Okay, Tracey, here’s where I need your expertise. All of this crown molding—is it rich and expensive or is it too much?” The painted woodwork crisscrosses all over the foyer, running up and down the walls and across the ceilings, following the flow of a staircase that first curves in one direction and then the other. The banister’s wound with an ivy swag that trails up the stairs and across the Juliet balcony. An ornate chandelier hangs low over the entryway, draped in string after string of beads and crystals, branching off into hundreds of little light-topped arms, which make the foyer as bright as an operating room.

  Sure, my eyes are distracted by all that’s going on in the vicinity of the walls, but then again, I can’t help but notice how open and airy everything is. Plus the scope of the staircase is nothing short of grand. That’s worth noting, right?

  Tracey takes in the whole room before answering, “It depends.”

  “On?” Mac prompts.

  “On whether or not you’re a Real Housewife of New Jersey.”

  Ouch.

  We pass from the flamboyant hallway into an equally ornate and scroll-y dining room. “I figured out the lights in here, too,” Liz informs us. “Look up.” The last time we were here in the relative darkness, we thought the tray ceiling had been painted with some light gray paint for a little architectural contrast. Yet when Liz hits the switch, the whole thing begins to glow from the silver-leaf treatment and tiny LED lights sprinkled randomly throughout twinkle like miniature stars.

  “Did not see that coming,” Mac notes.

  Tracey says nothing, instead simply choosing to nod. Yet I have to wonder how twinkly and festive the ceiling might feel around a properly set table full of family and friends. I bet it’s not awful.

  We circle around the foyer to the powder room. I actually thought this room was pretty cool the last time we were here, but in watching Tracey’s reaction to the enormous tufted button holding up swags and swags of alternating cranberry and forest layers of silk on the ceiling, I rethink my position.46

  “It’s like being at the circus!”

  “But the ceiling’s made of silk,” I protest. “Silk is a nice fabric, right?”

  “Oh, honey, yes, but not on a bathroom ceiling. The material’s not the problem—it’s the context.” She continues to peer at the fixtures. “Wait. There’s a hookah in here—no, this isn’t a circus. Rather, it’s more like The Thousand and One Nights. I shall call this room ‘Scheherazade Takes a Shit,’ ” Tracey says, attempting—and failing—to not bray with laughter.

  We pass into an electric green reading room filled with fake potted palms. Dusty plastic leaves form an awning over our heads. Tracey strolls the perimeter of the room, first taking in the paint choices and then inspecting the zebra-skin couch topped with round fuchsia, yellow, and royal blue throw pillows. “This room looks like Tommy Bahama banged a bag of Skittles.”

  There’s an enormous lion-headed water feature in the corner, and the window looks out over the statue of a bear on the patio. “So, what do you think, kids,” Tracey asks, “Russian Mafia or Italian Mafia?”

  “But,” I protest,“paint can be changed. Candice Olson says so all the time. And check out the window treatments!” Last time we were here, I fell in love with the thick white wooden-slat blinds. “Those are custom-made plantation shades!”

  Tracey’s not having it. “Yeah, and you certainly could never replicate those, right?”

  Ooh, good point.

  “To be fair, Tracey, you’ve told me how much you love French Provincial houses.”

  “Yes,” she agrees. “In Provence.”

  I feel like I have to defend our bringing her here, so I say,“I swear this place didn’t seem nearly so over-the-top with the lights off.”

  Before she can get in another snarky remark, I add, “Plus, this room isn’t what sold us. You haven’t yet seen the adorable guesthouse off the back patio. A guesthouse! As in a separate house for guests! You know what people in Indiana don’t have? A spare house for visitors. How exciting is that? Guests could have all the peace and privacy they wanted. Genius! And more important, there’s a pool and a pond. Do you realize if we buy this house we could be all, ‘We’ve got a pool and a pond. Pond would be good for you,’ every time someone came to visit. How hilarious would that be?”

  “Mia, you can’t drop that kind of cash on a house just because you want to quote Caddyshack.”

  I guess we’ll see about that.

  “Let’s just finish the tour before we completely rule it out,” I reason.

  We move on to the ultra-high-end kitchen, with its custom cabinetry and PRO series Sub-Zero fridge and wine cooler and double dishwasher and . . . ropes and ropes of fake ivy and pretend grapes. They seem to have snaked their way from the entry hall, over the balcony, and back down the wall in here. The plastic vines are strewn everywhere—on top of cabinets, over the fridge, looped from the ceiling, and woven into the window treatments. Tracey grows increasingly appalled. “No, seriously, the owners have to fire this home stager. Hell, I might just e-mail some photos to Get It Sold, because clearly they could use the help.”

  Then we get to the big dance—the two-story family room with its trompe l’oeil tray ceiling with its columns and cherubs. Tracey doesn’t notice it until I point up, and when she does, she jumps a little. “It just gets better and better.”

  “To be fair, that wasn’t done cheaply,” I say, attempting to be the devil’s advocate for the house. I’m coming around to agreeing that it might be a tad much, but someone dropped a ton of cash upgrading this place, and I really do like the pool and the pond.

  Okay, I can’t not say it again.

  Pond would be good for you.

  See? Hilarious! Every time!

  “Oh, no,”Tracey agrees. “You’re right on target there. Someone paid big money on these hideous treatments, thus proving the axiom ‘You can’t buy taste.’ ”

  Mac’s been looking in the pantry (which, of course, boasts another ginormous chandelier) (and, of course, impressed me on our last visit) and comes out to rejoin the conversation. “Obviously the place isn’t our taste—”

  “This is no one’s taste,” Tracey insists.

  Mac is undeterred. “But the reason we brought you here is to get your opinion on the bones of the place. Is what’s underneath all the grapes and sparkles worth salvaging?”

  Tracey pulls out a chair and has a seat at the rococo-legged kitchen table with the five-inch-thick marble top. “Here’s my issue with that—you said the house was priced reasonably but not great.”

  Liz sits across from us and she nods, toying with the enormous bowl of fake plastic grapes in the center. “I feel like they’d really need to come down on the asking price to make this place a good deal, and from what the listing agent says, they’re not terribly negotiable. It’s not a short-sale situation, at least not yet.”

  Tracey processes this information. “To me, it doesn’t make financial sense to pay a premium for expensive fixtures and then get rid of them. You’re going to have to fork over multiple thousands to chase the ghost of Carmella Soprano out of here. You want to rip stuff out? Then I suggest you find a house that’s priced accordingly or needs rehabbing.”

  Mac nods. “That’s what I’ve been telling Mia. I say if we want the most house for our money, we buy a fixer-upper, but she’s totally against it.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Mia. Why so opposed?”Tracey asks.

  “Redecorate? Yes. Rehab? No. I mean, remember when we had the leaky shower pan in the rental house on Old Gold Ave., and the one-week repair job turned into a two-month bath-gutting odyssey? No, thanks. I’d rather keep looking,” I reply.

  Mac turns to me, “So this place? It’s out of the running?”

  “Tracey makes a lot of sense about not tearing down expensive finishes,�
�� I have to admit. “Should we go?” I rise from the table.

  “Oh, no, no—I’ve got to see what treasures await upstairs,” Tracey says.

  I’m not sure what particular feature finally pushes Tracey over the edge—whether it’s the Wild West saloon doors separating the hot-pink master toilet from the hot-pink sunken tub47 or the massive elk-antler chandelier in the upstairs den or the wire-enclosed children’s bed that’s supposed to look like a princess coach but instead resembles a coast guard marine-rescue cage. She spends most of the ride to the city cackling and wiping her eyes.

  On the plus side, I’m so glad we brought Tracey, because now we’re not buying a house that can’t be made tasteful.

  The downside is, we won’t have a pool or a pond, and either one would have been good for me.

  “Anything worth noting today?”

  I say nothing, choosing only to grit my teeth in response.

  “That bad?” Mac asks gently. I’ve just come in the back door from an entire day spent up in the Cambs.

  While Mac’s at work, I’ve been tasked with running real estate recon missions. During the week it’s my job to weed out the stinkers so he doesn’t have to spend his weekends grimacing at faux-wood paneling and unfinished basements. I’m fine with the arrangement, because I have a looming deadline, which means I want to do anything except what I’m supposed to be doing.

  The truth is that the places I saw weren’t so awful today—at least comparatively—provided one has a deep and abiding love for mauve paint, gold faucets, and flood damage. At the moment, my glowering is due less to the fruitless search and more because of what I catch him doing. He’s standing over the stove massacring thirty dollars’ worth of fresh ingredients from Whole Foods in an attempt to make dinner.

  A few weeks ago, while we were at the market, I spotted a jar of herbs and sauce called Bush’s Chili Magic Chili Starter. I launched my body in front of it, hoping Mac wouldn’t notice, but I was too slow. He grabbed it, announcing, “Let’s make 2010 the year I learn to master chili!” just as I was thinking, Let’s make 2010 the year you stop trying to master chili. I realize some wives would love it if their husbands took the initiative to cook dinner, but perhaps they don’t realize they’d have to eat whatever their husbands make.48 Because I hate the idea of wasting food—or hurting his feelings—I always choke down whatever he serves.