I turn deeper into the subdivision only because Gypsy tells me to. If not for the street names I’m afraid I could get lost in here forever, like a spooky haunted corn maze on Halloween. It makes me sad to think of Gwendolyn stuck in this wasteland. But I remind myself that as long as there’s good light and room for a canvas, Gwendolyn will probably be fine just about anywhere. My cell phone rings and I click it on and try to sound depressed when I see it’s her. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hey! Where are you?”
“I’m sorry. I missed my plane and I just can’t get another flight…”
“Is that you coming up the street?” she asks, completely over the top of what I’m saying. I see a tall, skinny, crazy lady standing in the rain outside of a pretty white bungalow, waving like the house is on fire. I click off my phone. She’s beside my car before I can open the door. When I step out, she flings herself into my arms.
“How did you know it was me in this sorry little rental car? You could have just flagged down a serial nutjob!”
“I knew your plane landed on time and I’ve been watching. This is a dead end street and barely anyone comes down here.”
Gwendolyn’s smile is huge, she looks toothier than usual, and her eyes seem bigger. These aren’t pluses. As she leads the way up the sidewalk, I notice her pants are saggy in the bottom. I know for a fact those jeans fit her cute just two weeks ago.
“You’re too thin.”
“No one cooks for me,” she says as she opens the door.
“You still have to eat.”
She gestures for me to go ahead of her. “This is it.”
After a quick jog around the main floor, I decide that the current owner of this house is hands-down the best student I’ve ever had. Her dynamic furniture placement, her playful mixture of colors and textures, her ability to toss whimsical elements into an otherwise eclectic design… By the time I catch up with Gwendolyn again I have to ask, “Lord in heaven, where’s my mini-me hiding?”
“She left so I could show you through.”
“Didn’t she want to meet me? I must be her idol.”
Gwendolyn looks at me patiently, and I’m reminded why I’ve been missing her so much… She puts up with me.
“I bet Caroline would have liked to meet you, but she’s working on her new place.”
“Well, I have to meet her,” I say.
Gwendolyn frowns like she’s confused. I flash way back to her piecrust attempts, when she was determined to learn every recipe so she wouldn’t feel like a fraud. I think that phase lasted a month, ending in part because Trey threatened to make her pay for kitchen fire damage.
“Why do you want to meet her?” she asks.
“Wouldn’t you want to meet a painter who is similar to you, but maybe even better in some ways? Wouldn’t you want to talk about style and philosophy? Maybe learn a little?”
“I told Caroline I’d call her when we’re done anyway, so I’ll tell her you want to meet. Now can you look around and give me some advice?”
I take off my leather jacket and hang it over the back of a friendly red wicker chair with a retro-floral cushion. “Have you measured the rooms yet?” I ask. “Have you thought about colors? Do you have a furniture budget in mind?”
I know Gwendolyn doesn’t have answers; the little vertical line between her eyes says she’s worried and in over her head. Her face lightens suddenly.
“Caroline left some stuff on the counter when I told her you were coming.”
I follow Gwendolyn into the kitchen and see a neat little kit containing a paint deck, tape measure, pencil, and pad of paper. It’s exactly the decorating kit we advised on a video once! I’m feeling soft toward this Caroline. It’s not only because she has such good taste in designers and follows advice so well, I also saw a photo display in the hall and noticed that she and her kids couldn’t be more adorable.
“You said this place was being foreclosed?” I ask.
“Yeah. Sad, huh? Apparently Caroline’s husband left and she couldn’t hold on to it.”
“You know what else is sad? How much work is needed before you can move in! When Caroline takes her stuff out, this place won’t be recognizable.” I put my hands on my hips in what I know is a stereotypical gay stance. I can try this sort of thing out on Gwendolyn and she won’t judge me.
“Is this new?” she asks, mirroring my posture.
I’ve been living in don’t ask/don’t tell hell for the past two weeks—ever since Norman and I made the news. I honestly don’t know how to act! People used to think of me as the straight husband who gave the thumbs-up sign to Gwendolyn when I tasted a So Perfect recipe. The guy who kept his lispy mouth shut while he carved her turkey, or stacked her firewood, or put up her twelve foot high Christmas tree in the family room.
“Does it work for me?”
She tilts her head and seems to really consider the matter.
“If you like it, I like it.”
I wish I knew if I liked it! I feel like a gay teenager probably feels, if he isn’t terrified into denial by constant threats of fire and brimstone and gets to be freely gay in the world. Just because Trey now says the focus groups are fine with my alternative lifestyle (which is what he calls it), that doesn’t mean a certain heavyset woman in Praiseville agrees. I am so confused! I should have been figuring this stuff out when I was fifteen.
“What can I do?” Gwendolyn asks, picking up the tape measure. She looks hopeful and trusting. I am suddenly very sad for her. I strongly suspect she bought this house because it was decorated like the So Perfect one, as much as was possible for a house less than a quarter the size, with none of the architectural grandeur. Gwendolyn appears to have no idea that when the furnishings and accessories are gone, it won’t be special anymore.
“Do you own anything? Like rugs or lamps or dishes?” I ask, though I fear the answer is no. I didn’t have to incorporate any of her personal things into the Scenic house except mementos and art supplies.
“Not really.”
I know from her photo albums that Gwendolyn grew up quite wealthy. I wonder how it is that a twenty-nine year old woman has accumulated nothing on her journey through life except painting paraphernalia.
I consider talking her into going out for drinks before dinner and just pretending I never saw this doomed project. She’s counting on me, though. So few people have ever depended on me, as a friend not a hired genius; it feels novel and I don’t want to ruin it. Plus I need to be on her good side for the conversation we’ve got to have.
I take the tape measure from her hands and begin measuring the breakfast nook. “OK, so you’re starting from scratch. How much can you spend?”
She shrugs.
I let the tape recoil back into its case with a loud snap and stare at her. I’m at a total loss for how a smart girl like Gwendolyn is such a total dimwit when it comes to basic practicalities.
“You think I’m hopeless,” she says, not like she’s mad or sad, but just stating it.
I shake my head and chuckle. She knows me way too well! I had no siblings. Friendships were awkward for me because girls didn’t understand why I didn’t want to kiss them, and when guys suspected that I did, it became touchy. Gwendolyn and I hit it off from the first day. She says I picked her, that she was the one on approval and I had all the power to say yea or nay. Really though, the fact that she seemed to trust my judgment and accept me with no questions asked made it easy. I liked her art, too, but aside from the pieces she creates in a crazy fog, I bet there are lots of painters who can do better. I think I picked Gwendolyn because she wanted me to, and because she let me.
“I think you’re smart about a lot of things,” I say.
She puts her hand in mine and gives me that understanding smile of hers. “But stupid when it comes to keeping house?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
We both laugh a little and it’s a relief to see we’re still a team. A dysfunctio
nal one, there’s no question about that, but a loving one, too. When the story first broke, I thought that for as long as anyone still cared, I’d be known as the guy who tarnished the Golden image. For whatever fickle reason though, the story hasn’t fizzled, but has picked up tabloid steam. While I seem to be weathering the public opinion storm, Gwendolyn has been getting pelted.
“Have you read any of the stories about us?” I ask.
“No! I can’t believe anyone cares.”
I thought at first Gwendolyn protested too much, that she really liked the attention we got when we went to dinner or the movies, or when the horse-and-buggy city tour stopped in front of the Grand Dame and people took photographs and strained to catch glimpses of us. I loved that part. I wished I could be myself, I wished I could take credit for my work, but even the deflected adulation was pretty great. Gwendolyn never warmed to it, though. Maybe people had always looked up to her and treated her nice and that’s why it wasn’t as big a deal to her as it was to me.
“I guess it’s kind of flattering that we’re not already forgotten.”
“I wish we were! My dad tells me about all the snarky little things he’s read or seen on television. He and my sister are mortified, so that sucks.”
“How’s your dad health-wise?”
“He’s back at home in his normal routine. His tests came out fine and they tweaked his medicine and told him to get more exercise. I spend most of my days at his place. He let me set up an easel in his spare bedroom, which has south-facing windows.”
“And how’s your sister?”
“She’s a bitch, same as ever.”
“Do you have any friends?”
“My realtor has been wonderful. He let me store my stuff from the Scenic house in one of his buildings until I move in here.”
Gwendolyn blushes a little, and I know she must’ve heard about Trey’s publicity stunt. After a weeklong lull in the story, he called Stuart Bolder in and made a big production out of sending her possessions off in a U-Haul. Stuart implied that Gwendolyn was a diva with a shoe closet like Paris Hilton’s, but I know she usually dresses like she’s dressed now: jeans, a fitted t-shirt (in this case it’s robin’s egg blue and washes out her hazel eyes to an eerie shade of pale), a long crocheted cardigan sweater she takes off and misplaces when she’s warm, and cowboy boots. Even in summer. I tried to coax Gwen out of her wardrobe rut for four years running so I know she doesn’t own any clothes besides the laundry list of things I mentioned. I’m guessing they kept the things she wore on camera. I think Trey packed Gwendolyn’s truck half full of empty boxes to make the poor kid look worse than everyone thinks she is.
I look at her sweet face and her crumpled hair, which is suffering mightily from two weeks of neglect. She reaches around my waist and hooks her thumb in my belt hoop in that winning way audiences loved during television spots.
“So, what will I need to make this house a home?”
“A magic wand.”
“I have better than that. I have you!”
I look around nervously and check my watch. “Seriously now, what can you spend?”
“Until Trey lets me cash out my stock options, I’ve got to be on a strict budget. I should only take about $5,000 to get moved in.”
I bite my lip and think for a minute. “We can get you a nice sofa, maybe a coffee table, and a footstool, if I really stretch it.”
She widens her eyes in surprise and I have to look away.
“Is that really all?”
“If I’m doing the buying,” I tell her honestly. I sweep my eyes around the kitchen. “There are almost certainly cheaper ways to go, though. Maybe Caroline can help you?”
I know that it’s one thing to have a staff and an unlimited credit card, and quite another to make magic on a budget. The lady who put this house together did what she could with what she had, and the effect is sweet and homey. She paired a newish sofa with mismatched old leather club chairs she probably picked up in a thrift store, and they look like they’re having a jolly old conversation together in the family room. She flanked four matching wooden chairs around the dining table and then punched it up with contrasting brightly-painted chairs on either end. She has a delightful sense of color, texture, proportion, and whimsy. Every edge is softened into something at once so chic and so earnest.
“I think she has her hands full already. But thanks for telling it to me straight,” Gwendolyn says.
Together we walk through the house and make some rough measurements. I suggest a few places where Gwendolyn might hang her favorite paintings, and what furniture pieces would look nice where, if she can find inexpensive sources or another fifty grand.
As I go from room to room, I try to put my finger on why Caroline’s house looks so fresh to me. It takes me a little while to place it, but when I do, I see it everywhere—it’s evidence of her kids. They’re infused into each room of the house. School calendars are pinned on to a bulletin board beside clever wall pockets holding schoolwork. A computer nook makes smart use of the tiny formal living room. Lively children’s artwork has been taped up to brighten the dull white door to the laundry room from the kitchen, and on the breakfast room windows to conceal an otherwise boring view of the side of a neighbor’s house. The way she made room for her kids’ work and play just seems effortless, and beautiful.
“My mother threw away all my art. She never thought it was any good,” Gwendolyn says as she admires the handiwork of Caroline’s kids.
“She was probably just a neat freak,” I say.
Gwendolyn’s sad smile says I’m full of crap.
“Are you complaining to me about mothers?” I ask. We both laugh a little.
“I wish I could be more helpful,” I say after we’ve walked through the house and Gwendolyn has scratched down notes as I talked and motioned. She said she’s going to leave an upstairs bedroom empty to use as a studio, because it’s the only room with adequate natural light. I agree that sounds like a swell idea, but I don’t mention that most of her house is likely to be empty for a good long while.
“You were a huge help!” she says, frowning down at her notes that are in such a jumble I doubt she can even read them. I notice she sketched an easel in the upstairs room, but that’s the only thing she drew.
“I wish I could make you dinner, you look half starved. Are there any five star restaurants around here?”
“I either eat with my dad or order room service at the hotel where I’m staying. When I move in here I’ll be able to cook,” she looks down at the scuffed toes of her cowboy boots.
“Why don’t we go see and be seen, and photographed, so that it’s clear to the world we’re best friends, no matter how anyone tries to spin it?”
“I’d rather keep lying low,” she says.
“Take it from the infamous Armand Leopold—you can’t hide out forever.” I half spin, thinking how ironic it is that my bible-thumping mother gave me such a fabulous gay name. I raise my eyebrows at Gwen about my move, but she shrugs her shoulders as if to say the question of whether to half spin or not to half spin is really up to me.
“My dad said you’re doing an interview next week? He saw a commercial for it,” she says, cutting to the chase.
“That’s why I wanted to see you so bad,” I confess. “I wanted you to know I don’t have a choice in the matter. Trey’s been trying to get me to do it from day one, remember? He pointed out contract language until my eyes glazed over. He threatened to sue if I didn’t agree to talk.” That’s technically true, though I didn’t argue too hard either, once I heard what the focus groups said.
“My dad said it looks like they’re really hyping it.”
I know this. I know the ads make it look like I’m the good guy and she’s a selfish diva. “You know I love you,” I tell her.
“I trust you,” she says.
My stomach sinks because I see she means it.
Gwendolyn points out the window
during our drive away from her place in my rental car.
“This is the house Caroline is moving to. Smith told me when he dropped me off earlier.”
“Smith?” I ask and notice that Gwendolyn blushes. To my knowledge, she hasn’t so much as kissed a boy in the time I’ve known her.
“It’s a long story,” she says.
I put my foot on the brake so we lurch a little. “Is Caroline there now?”
“That’s her car. I forgot to call to say we’re done at her house.”
Gwendolyn pulls out her cell phone but I park in the driveway instead. I really want to meet this Caroline woman. “Let’s tell her in person,” I say, getting out.
Gwendolyn seems very reluctant. “I don’t want to impose. I told her I’d call…”
By the time she finishes her argument I’m already ringing the bell. Through the dirty little window in the front door I see an ugly, filthy house. Everything about it is nasty. Finally a woman wearing rubber gloves, a surgical mask, and carrying a half filled garbage bag appears.
“Caroline Penny?”
She pulls down her mask. She looks exhausted, dirty, and life-threateningly embarrassed. I guess I get it; I certainly wouldn’t want my idol to see me in a similar situation.
“I didn’t expect to meet you,” she says, frowning at her rubber gloves.
I flash my winning smile. “I just toured your house with Gwendolyn.”
She bites her lip. “I suppose I seem pretty foolish, following all your instructions to the letter like I don’t have any ideas of my own.”
“No! I think you’re brilliant! You’re my new idol.” I flop my hand and instantly regret it. I peek over to Gwendolyn and she averts her eyes.
“Right,” Caroline whispers.
“We’re done at your house, Caroline,” Gwendolyn says apologetically. “Thanks for letting us go through.”
“I’d love to talk design with you,” I say cheerfully, because the ladies seem to think this conversation is over and I’m not ready for it to end.
As Is Page 9