A Slight Change of Plan

by Dee Ernst

  I spent a lot of money on Cape Cod. I bought a great old wing chair that barely fit in the back of the minivan, even though I’d taken all the seats out. I bought paintings and quilts, a faded Oriental rug, and lots of what my mother would have called tchotchkes. My main problem was that I didn’t know what I wanted my new home to look like. I only knew what I didn’t want it to look like—like the widow of a doctor lived there. So while I had spent hours of my life looking through glossy magazines and watching HGTV, I still didn’t have a vision. But I figured I had lots of time.

  I closed on the condo as soon as I got back, before I closed on the house. Which meant I needed something called a bridge mortgage. It seems the bank didn’t quite trust me to pay off the condo after I sold the house, even though I had all sorts of signed contracts. I know that I went through the mortgage process the first time with Adam, but I don’t remember it being such a pain in the butt. I wanted to scream and throw things and just wait until I had the check from the sale of the house in my hot little hand, but, even more, I wanted all the condo walls painted a soothing taupe and the hardwood floors refinished dark coffee before I moved in. So when I signed away my old house and followed the movers to my new place, it looked just the way I wanted it to look—except I had almost no furniture. I had saved all the outdoor stuff, so my deck looked great, but inside was pretty empty. I did have the wing chair, covered in ivory silk, and a rug from Cape Cod, and lots and lots of boxes, as well as a queen-size sleigh bed and brand-new mattress. I had kept a very few sentimental pieces, like some of the kids’ things, but that was all stashed in the basement. My home was going to be all new, a fresh start. I popped open champagne, sat alone in my one chair, and looked at my life. Thirty-some years of my home and family, reduced to mountains of brown cardboard and a row of pictures lined up against my new fireplace. The cats had gone into hiding, Boone whined and would not settle down, and I couldn’t figure out which wires went where on the television, so I went to bed early. By morning, all the animals had found their way to the new bed, so I figured we’d all be fine.

  My new condo was three levels. The garage and basement were on the street. From the driveway, you’d go up a half flight of steps to a beautiful brick courtyard where I had already planned for a few tall, colorful planters with lots of flowers, a really cool water feature, and a low stone bench. Then up another half flight to the front door. I really liked the courtyard, and could imagine sitting out there in the evenings with my wine, watching the comings and goings of the neighborhood.

  Jeff and Gabe showed up early, brought bagels, and helped me unpack. I kept looking for a sign that something was wrong between them, but they seemed to be their usual selves. Gabe left just before lunch to go to the grocery store, and came back with enough food to fill the fridge and then some. Afterward, we left the boxes and shopped for furniture. Jeff and Gabe brought their van, a long, battered thing Gabe used to haul stuff to the shop. I followed in the minivan. We were going to do some serious shopping.

  Maybe I wasn’t sure what I wanted the condo to look like, but Jeff and Gabe had a vision. We power-shopped six stores, including every HomeGoods we could find. We bought pieces off the showroom floor and packed as much as we could in both vehicles, then unpacked and had everything arranged by dinner.

  Finally, I said, “This is how you see me living?”

  Jeff was smiling happily. “Mom, the place looks great.”

  I looked around. Shabby velvet club chairs, faded leather love seat, and chunky black tables. And, because they were on sale, four fake palm trees. “It looks like the Abercrombie and Fitch store at the mall.”

  Gabe clucked. “No, Kate, it doesn’t.”

  “That’s because there’s too much light in here,” I said. “Imagine the place in near-darkness.”

  Jeff shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

  “Okay. Hollister then.”

  Gabe’s face fell. “Well, maybe a little.”

  “All I need is a surfboard on the wall,” I said. “And a rack of skinny jeans.”

  Jeff was hanging tough. “You’re both crazy. This is shabby-chic-slash-eclectic.”

  I shook my head. “This is ‘Do you have this in size triple zero?’ ” I flopped onto one of the chairs. Granted, it was very comfortable. “I’m going to have to start subscribing to all those weird music magazines. And play the Beach Boys in a continuous loop.”

  Jeff dove into another box. “We just need to add a few accessories.”

  “My God, Jeff, can you possibly say something a little less gay?” Regan came into the room. She had knocked, I’m sure, but had not bothered to wait for anyone to open the door for her. My fault, I knew—I never locked my doors, because all the people I knew were so used to letting themselves in. Mi casa es su casa, no matter what casa it was. Phil was right behind her, struggling with another palm tree, which I assumed was my housewarming present. I waved tiredly from my chair.

  “Hi, baby girl. How do you like the new digs?”

  Regan had hugged Gabe and was looking around critically. She was a very pretty girl. She looked more like Laura than me, thank God, because my face is all strong angles, with a jaw that could be Jay Leno’s second cousin. Regan’s face was soft and gently curved. So was her body, but you could hardly ever tell, because her standard uniform was something big, baggy, and drooping. For a woman with a great shape, she never showed it off. She told me that since she was flat chested, nobody was going to look at her anyway, but would it hurt to flaunt great legs and a nice butt?

  “Why does this place look familiar?” she asked.

  I stood up to kiss Phil. “Think forty-dollar tank tops.”

  “Wow,” she said. “You’re right. Except it’s way too bright. And there are no black shutters. Where’s the checkout?”

  Jeff had artfully arranged a wooden bowl, a stack of books, and three oversize chess pieces on the coffee table. “See, this looks better,” he said.

  Regan shook her head. “No, not really. And I can’t believe we bought you a palm tree. It already looks like a rain forest in here.”

  I waved it aside. “Yours is real, honey, and it’s beautiful. Thank you. We can put it out on the deck. In fact, why don’t we sit out there for a while?”

  So we sat in the twilight on old, familiar patio furniture, cast-iron tables, and creaking Adirondack chairs. Gabe went into the kitchen and came back with fruit and cheese, crackers and wine, and we ate and talked, looking out over the woods that were my brand-new backyard. We talked about Sam and his new life. He and Alisa had found a place, and were moving in in a few weeks. We talked about Regan’s wedding, and where she was looking for her dress. Phil complained about his mother, who was already being a royal pain in the ass. No one mentioned our old house. No one mentioned Adam. No one seemed sad to see me in such a new and different place.

  But I was sad. Just a little.

  The best thing about my future son-in-law, aside from the fact that he was crazy about Regan and would make a noticeable contribution to the good looks of my grandchildren, was that he could do things. Jeff could arrange furniture and find the perfect shoe to go with any outfit. Gabe cooked like a chef and was pretty good at money advice. Sam could hack into any government database and arrange for a long-range nuclear missile to hit any target I desired. But Phil was good at practical things, like finding the cable box in my new den, and making sure the washing machine was hooked up properly. He laughed at me because I also had a telephone line installed, but I’m still old-fashioned enough to believe that if you have a home, you should have a home phone.

  In a week I had pretty much unpacked the important stuff, waved at a few neighbors, and walked to the health club. I hadn’t gone into the health club, but Boone and I passed it at least once a day. I nodded to the golf pro in passing. I even looked at the pool.

  Cheryl came by to take me to lunch and check out the place. She stood in the middle of the living room, looked around carefully, then glared at me.


  “Why did you let Jeff decorate your house? Have you learned nothing?”

  I shrugged. “He seemed so excited. He and Gabe both. And they brought the van, and Gabe always has great wine.… Is it that bad?”

  “Kate, it’s gorgeous. Two gay men from the Village? How can it not be? But let’s face it, this room looks nothing like you.”

  I looked around sadly. My animals had all adjusted nicely. Boone had claimed a corner of the love seat. Seven perched on top of one of the velvet chairs in a patch of sun. Eight hung out under one of the fake palms, looking for all the world like a gray tiger stalking a gazelle. But try as I might, I did not feel comfortable.

  “The den is better,” I told her, leading the way. The den was an alcove right before the master bedroom, with my desk and computer, a wall of empty bookcases waiting to be filled with all my books, a wall-mounted television, and the squishy chair and ottoman that had been in my old kitchen.

  “You can’t live in here,” Cheryl said. “You’ve got those beautiful windows overlooking all that green space, and you spend your time in this cubbyhole? Grow a backbone, Kate. Send the stuff back and go to Ethan Allen.”

  “I know. I’m going to have to do something. I can put the stuff downstairs, or some of it on the upstairs landing. The good thing about all these extra rooms is that I can buy all sorts of furniture and keep moving it around. Let’s eat.”

  Cheryl drove, always an interesting experience. Once, she rolled down her window so she could scream at the guy idling next to us at a red light to stop talking on his cell phone. We got to the restaurant without inciting a riot, and ordered. We chatted for a few more minutes before she nailed me.

  “So what’s bothering you?”

  I played with the stem of my wineglass. “Do you believe God is interested in our happiness?”

  My Italian mother belonged to one of the more complicated religious affiliations—Lapsed Catholicism. She made sure that both my sister and I received our first Holy Communion, but after taking care of that first brush with sin, she ignored any further religious education. My father was a Methodist, the most laid-back and undemanding of organized religions, so I spent most of my young life believing in God but not taking him too seriously.

  Cheryl frowned. As well as I knew her, I had never discussed religious beliefs with her. I knew that she’d been raised Catholic, but beyond that, I had no idea what her spiritual outlook was.

  “Do you mean in a general sense, like God loves us and tries to keep us on the right path?” she asked.

  “No, not exactly. Do you think God personally cares if I, Kate Everett, die alone in a rest home somewhere instead of holding the hand of a man I love?”

  Cheryl looked at me through narrowed eyes. “How hypothetical is this question?”

  “Well, an old boyfriend is on the same dating site as I am, and Laura thinks it’s divine intervention and that we’re meant to be together.”

  “What kept you from being together before?”

  “He cheated on me and broke my heart.”

  “Ah. That old boyfriend.”

  I looked at her. “I don’t remember ever telling you about Jake.”

  She shrugged. “Is that his name? We’ve all got one, Kate. The guy that should have been. Mine was Will Marcetta. Bass player in a folk-rock band. I would have lived in the back of his van and traveled all across the county with him, if he’d let me. But I don’t think he was willing to give up the freedom of the road, you know? The one-night stands? I never thought I’d love again. But I did. Just like you did.” She stopped and let the waiter slide a Cobb salad in front of her. She picked up her fork and played with her food for a minute.

  I leaned forward, listening. Cheryl could be a real space cadet at times, but she had a rock-solid core of good sense.

  “I’m not sure going back is a good thing,” she went on. “We can never be the same people we were. Do you want to risk finding out that the great love of your life has turned into a boring old fart? Or do you want to keep remembering him the way he was?” She shrugged. “I don’t think God has set you up. There’s a difference between God and fate. And fate is not always kind. Neither is God, for that matter, but he always has better intentions.”

  “I know. You’re right. I’m actually meeting a retired science teacher for coffee next week. He seems very smart and friendly, and no bizarre personality traits have emerged so far, so I’m giving it a shot.”

  “Meeting someone? You’re stepping out beyond the world of virtual relationships and going to try someone in real life?”

  I made a face at her. “Yes, a real someone. Not a real Jake. I still haven’t decided what to do about him. Maybe meeting somebody else will prove to me that going forward is better than looking back.”

  “Good for you, Kate. I’m proud of you. You are a shining example of the New Single Woman: facing the world alone and unafraid of change, putting everything on the line, willing to take chances with the unknown. Some magazine needs to do an article about you.”

  I stared at my lunch. Lettuce and grilled chicken swam in and out. I felt suddenly nauseous. I didn’t want to face the world alone. I didn’t want to put everything on the line. I was only taking chances because I didn’t have that many choices. Any magazine article about me would be titled “Caution: Midlife Crisis Coming Through.”

  “Would you be disappointed in me if I told you that I hope the retired teacher and I hit it off, get married, and live Happily Ever After so I never have to take another vacation alone?”

  She reached over and patted my hand. “I’d never be disappointed in you, Kate. You’re one of the best people I know. But you really need to do something with that living room. Ever since I walked out of there, I’ve had this weird urge to go shopping at the mall.”

  I had invited Sam and Alisa to have dinner with me. Twice. They declined, saying they were trying to get their own place set up. But then they invited me to see their apartment. I was quite excited about the whole thing.

  I must admit that my feelings about New York City were first and always colored by the movies I had seen as a kid. Remember Audrey Hepburn’s apartment in Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Even though she had no furniture, it was cute and chic, in a great neighborhood with fascinating neighbors. Barefoot in the Park, anyone? What Jane Fonda did with that little place was amazing, and again with the great neighborhood, etc. Even during the late sixties, when Times Square had hookers and junkies instead of Disney, I still thought that living in Manhattan would be as close to perfect as anyone could imagine. So even though Sam’s new place was in Harlem, and I had never been to Harlem, my expectations were high.

  I took the train, then the subway, and was in the general neighborhood in a little over an hour. Then I had to walk twelve blocks. Luckily, it was not raining. Or too hot. And I had comfortable shoes. The block they lived on had no quaint cafes or gleaming outdoor markets. Faintly ethnic music did not waft through open windows. It was a block totally devoid of charm or grace, but loud with the sound of traffic.

  The building was prewar, but not in a good way. It did not have a doorman, but they buzzed me in and the little lobby had only one broken light. They lived on the sixth floor, and I had to wait a long time for the elevator, which was small but did not smell of pee. I got off the elevator and they were standing in the hallway, waiting for me. They looked beautiful together, so I ignored the blaring of horns, cracked ceiling, and worn linoleum. But once inside, I caved.

  “Your window overlooks the alley,” I said.

  Alisa pulled out one of the two bentwood chairs that were crowded around a tiny table. “Yes, but we get some light in the bedroom,” she said.

  I sat. I looked around.

  The kitchen was along a wall about six feet long, with a tiny sink and the smallest gas stove I’d ever seen. The living/dining room held the table we were sitting at. There was also a huge desk covered with two laptops and three printers. The other huge desk had a desktop and a
fax machine. There wasn’t room for anything else. The walls were pretty, a pale yellow that tried to, but did not quite, brighten the place up. There were curtains framing the window and the view of a solid brick wall, and over one of the desks was a gorgeous reproduction of a J.M.W. Turner painting, all stormy skies and a brilliant ray of sunlight shining through. The only ray of sunlight in the whole room.

  The floor was the same worn linoleum as the common hallway. The ceiling had the same cracks. I could still hear the blare of traffic. I sniffed discreetly. No funny smells. Thank God.

  “I love the wall color,” I said.

  Alisa grinned. “Me too. Sam wanted white, but I thought we needed some fake sunshine. Can I get you something? We’ll be going out to eat. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m not a very good cook, and every time I turn the stove on, I smell gas.”

  Sam made a noise. “She thinks she smells gas. I keep telling her it’s all in her head.”

  Alisa reached over and kissed him lightly. “I have a highly developed sense of smell.” She looked so pretty in a short denim skirt and a bright polo shirt. Her dark hair was long and shiny, her blue eyes bright and hopeful. All I could imagine was her in six months’ time, all the life crushed out of her from coming home every day to this crowded, dingy space.

  “Bathroom?”

  I had to walk through the bedroom. Yes, it did have a window, set so high in the wall you couldn’t look out, but it was noticeably lighter in there. There was room for the bed, barely, and there was a closet with no door. I realized the door had been removed because otherwise, there would have not been enough room to open it.

  The bathroom was the size of my walk-in shower. The tile on the floor was stained, but everything was scrubbed clean. When I sat, my knees hit the pipe under the sink.

  I could not believe that apartments like this still existed. The whole thing could have fit into my new living room. This was worse than anything Neil Simon could have thought of when he was writing Barefoot in the Park.