If You Were Here

had a triple rather than a double switch, he’d have done everything right. And yet as I wrote out the two-hundred- and-fifty-dollar time-and-a-half check for the repair, I failed to recognize this victory.

As Chandeliergate 2008 is still a sore point around here, I don’t bring it up. Instead I say, “I thought we agreed renovations would be too troublesome. I mean, I want to put my mark on a place, but I had new paint and carpet in mind, maybe a little crown molding. Possibly some light cabinet hardware shopping.”

An oddly determined look crosses his face. “Listen, we’ve spent every Saturday for the last year watching HGTV. What they do only looks difficult. Do you know how easy it is to rehab a bathroom if you’re just swapping vanities and exchanging fixtures? Most of the work comes from the teardown, and I can swing a sledgehammer and rewire an electrical panel. The only hard part’s moving pipes, and we can outsource that to a professional.”

“You spend one high school summer working in a lumberyard and all of a sudden you’re Bob Vila?”

He wipes his hands on a dish towel and begins to ladle out our dinner. “No, I’m saying we’re capable of doing more than you’d guess.”

I mull this over while collecting napkins, spoons, and enough bread and butter to absorb the taste of our dinner. When he’s finished preparing our bowls, he sits down across from me and places his hand over my left hand. “Promise me you’ll at least consider our buying a rehab.”

I glance down at the gelatinous blob in my bowl and I cross the fingers on my right hand under the table. “If we can’t find a house that’s move-in ready, then yes, I promise.”

And I mean it. Mostly.

Yet there’s a part of me that also recalls spending a year of Sundays watching the Food Network. For all our copious research, I’m still about to eat a bowl of blue stew.

We’ve officially looked at every move-in-ready house in Abington Cambs.

Now what?

I’ve spent the past few days furiously trying to complete an overdue chapter, and the eyestrain from staring at the computer is killing me. Between the pressure of the deadline and the anxiety of not finding a house, I’m completely wound up and stressed out. I decide the best way to reward and revive myself is a long soak in the tub with a couple of chamomile tea bags over my eyes.

I’ve been in the tub for about twenty minutes when I hear an odd noise. It’s almost like. . whispering? I sit up for a second, removing the washcloth that’s keeping my tea bags in place. I pause to really listen, but then I don’t hear anything. I’m not terribly concerned, because the alarm system is set. I have it armed at all times now, ever since ORNESTEGA’s little pals flashed their gang signs at me.⁴⁹

I reapply my tea bags, reposition the washcloth, and, using my foot, nudge the faucet to run enough hot water to revive my bubbles. Ah, that’s the stuff.

A few minutes later, I hear the weird sound again, but I ignore it. It’s probably just the TV downstairs. I’ve taken to leaving HGTV on twenty-four/seven. Every time Sandra Rinomato helps her Property Virgins find their first place, my hope is renewed. I mean, if people who have almost no budget can find their dream home, we’re destined to find something great, right?

Anyway, sometimes the volume goes up during commercials, especially when the Sham Wow guy’s ads run. No big deal.

I hear the odd noise a third time and that’s when I smell something akin to cologne and cigarette smoke. I pull off my jury-rigged chamomile mask, and when I do, I am faced with what appear to be two Japanese businessmen inspecting my steam shower.

I scream and then they scream and we all scream, yet with all the screaming going on in my bathroom, no one gives us any ice cream.

The screams do bring Vienna running, though. So that’s a plus.

“Ohmigod, break my eardrums, why don’t you?” She stands in my doorway, hip-slung and aggravated, clad in a sundress constructed of what appears to be a fitted yellow shower curtain, paired with four-and-a-half-inch gladiator sandals. ⁵⁰ She points at the two men peering down curiously at me before returning to texting while talking. “This is Mr. Oshiro and Mr. Takamoto. I don’t know who’s who, but whatever. They’re real estate investors from Japan. They might want to buy a piece of my company.” And on cue, both gentlemen bow.

This is surreal.

“Hi, nice to meet you and welcome to my home,” I say with a nod to the men. They bow again. “Oh,Vienna? In case you failed to notice, I’m taking a bath here!”

“Yeah, I noticed.” She snickers. “I noticed your shoulders are totally fat.” Then she briefly removes her fingers from her crystalstudded cell phone and puffs her cheeks and presses her finger to her lips. This causes the Japanese men to nod appreciatively at her gesture before bowing again.

What does. .? How could. .? I’m so torn between complete rage and abject mortification I can hardly form a complete thought. I finally sputter, “I’m sorry, but are you insane? Why are you here? You’re obligated to give me two days’ notice before you let yourself in, and you know that. You’re trespassing, and technically I could have you arrested right now.”

“Doubtful,” she replies with a toss of her clip-on hair. What sucks is, she’s right. If the Chicago PD didn’t haul her in the night she drove her Bentley into all those “boring people”⁵¹ at Enclave, I imagine this is small potatoes.

I curl into myself and sink as low as I can under the bubbles. “How did you get past the alarm?” I hiss.

She begins to twirl one long, white-blond polystyrene extension. “Ugh, your stupid alarm. Pain in my ass. I had the guy cut the wires a few weeks ago because it kept going off, like, every time I came in.”

I can feel my blood boiling, and if it weren’t for my overwhelming fear of public nakedness, I’d have leaped out of the tub and throttled the bitch by now. With gritted teeth I ask, “Where are my dogs?” I suddenly have a vision of her simply opening my gate and letting my pups run free. And if that’s the case, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. I’m about to go full-on Swayze up in here.

She shrugs and bats her overly mascaraed eyes. I take great pleasure in noticing that the left one is a tiny bit wonky. “Last I saw, they were on the couch. They totally love me; all dogs do. It’s one of my, like, many gifts.”

“That’s just great. Oh, FYI? You can leave anytime now,” I suggest. “Or not, of course. Because there’s nothing at all embarrassing or inappropriate about my being nude while you conduct business with a couple of Japanese dudes. I’m sure they’re used to it, what with bathhouses being a big part of their culture.” When I thrust a soapy finger in the men’s direction, they both bow. Argh.

She doesn’t budge from her spot. “Whatevs. Listen, can you get up? The guys wanna see if the tub’s jetted.”

And now it’s time to not be nice.

I hurl my bubble bath at her. “Get out, get out, get out!” She scurries out of the line of fire as the bottle splats against the glass door, oozing big emerald green streaks. Misters Oshiro and Takamoto follow her, but not without giving me a cursory bow first.

You know what?

Maybe I could live with a little construction dust.

When I get home from today’s search, I don’t even flinch when I see Mac slaughtering twenty-two dollars’ worth of grass-fed, antibioticfree, organic beef.

I don’t worry when he tells me about the mysterious bandaged person lurking in the alley; nor do I frown⁵² when he informs me of Vienna’s latest antics involving a backhoe and my row of lovingly tended, winterized peony bushes.

You see, I found our house today.

Chapter Five. SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL (HOUSE)