If You Were Here

I told Claire that high school is easy; interior design is hard. I argued that kids should start plotting out their dream kitchens now, so they know what they want by the time they turn thirty-five, ergo Miriam and Rebecca’s fourteen-page countertop-finish manifesto. ¹⁰⁰ Claire told me that my book was giving her “boredom cancer,” and that’s when I knew I had to scrap everything and start fresh.

I put my head down on my desk/door and exhale heavily. “Okay, I’ll do what I can.”

Natalie’s frustration is obvious. “Mia, what is going on? Blowing a deadline isn’t like you. I don’t have to tell you that if you don’t get this book in soon, you’re going to cut the whole prepublicity push short. Long-lead magazines won’t receive review copies. You’re essentially hobbling yourself if you don’t get on this. . ”

I inadvertently wince when Nat says “hobbling.” All authors do. I mean, we’ve all read/seen Stephen King’s Misery, and we all remember when Annie Wilkes hobbled Paul Sheldon to keep him prisoner. Freaking terrifying. Every time I log on to my Facebook fan page and see someone calling herself my “number one fan,” I feel around my desk to make sure my gun’s still there.¹⁰¹

“. . so I want you to put aside whatever you’re going through and concentrate, because, P.S., you don’t get paid until you’re done.”

I’m too wiped out to tell her that Mac and I spent the past three days hauling wheelbarrows full of debris down our tenth-of-a-mile curved driveway because the Dumpster people left it in the wrong place. Nat doesn’t want to discuss the kitchen cabinet that fell out of the wall, taking out the dishwasher and damaging the oven; nor is she interested in my frenetic rush to prepare for Babcia’s visit.

All Nat wants to hear is that I’m on it.

“I’m on it,” I lie.

“Good. Now, while I’ve got you on the phone, I have some interesting news. I got a call from a scout at HBO. The guy’s a producer and his kid made him read your books. Sounds like he’s interested in pursuing an option.”

A healthy option check would go a long way toward easing my mind right now. With all the mishaps, things are getting too tight for comfort. Mac’s set the deductible on our homeowner’s insurance so high that all the repair costs are coming directly out of pocket. In his defense, a lower monthly payment sounded smart; he couldn’t have foreseen it raining toilets in my office. Prevented it? Yes. Foreseen it? No.

So, the out-of-pocket expenses, plus what we’ve budgeted for a full kitchen rehab, plus replacing all the bathroom fixtures, plus all the petition-based repairs we’ve made have gone through a huge chunk of our cushion. I mean, we’ve already spent a mint just because of the mailbox.

That damn mailbox has become the bane of my existence. When we moved in, the mailbox was housed in a big, crumbing brick-and-mortar pillar. The masonry seemed too far gone to try to repair, so Mac and I spent days swinging sledgehammers to bring it down, learning the hard way that “looks crumbling” doesn’t mean “is crumbling.”

The whole time we slaved away out there, Lululemon and Elbow Patches kept walking by us really slowly. After a while, we stopped even trying to say hello.

I found the most beautiful mailbox on eBay. It’s a tall, red iron box with separate slots for mail and newspapers. According to the auction listing, it’s an antique from India. If you squint at it just right, you might think it’s an overgrown fire hydrant. I love it and it’s unique and I actually spent a good deal of money on it. I thought it would really personalize the front yard — I mean, who doesn’t like objets d’art from exotic locales? This is the first piece of art I ever bought, and I assumed it would be a nice gesture to share with the rest of the neighborhood.

I assumed wrong.

So very wrong.

First came the petition, which we chose to ignore, as it was signed by three families with enormous bass fish — shaped mailboxes, one with what looks like a birdhouse with a mail slot, and four with varying degrees of crumbled masonry posts. The only difference between my mailbox and theirs was that mine was beautiful. (Also, I didn’t plant the ornamental purple cabbage around mine because I thought it clashed with the red.)

After we ignored the petition, our neighbors took additional action and we started getting letters from the city telling us our mailbox didn’t “meet code.” There’s a mailbox code up here? Really? And who has the kind of time to go out and inspect mailboxes, anyway?

After receiving multiple fines for violating city ordinances, we’ve since taken down our beautiful Indian mailbox, which was no easy feat due to our having sunk it in cement. From the get-go, we’ve invested two thousand dollars in materials and fines, countless man-hours’ worth of labor, and now we have to go to the post office to collect our mail, since the letter carrier won’t deliver to our house, as we have no box. Argh.

Anyway, in terms of finances, there’s always credit and a second mortgage, but I don’t want to go that route.

“Does this indicate a possible bidding war between Persiflage and HBO?” Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please.

“That’s my hope, anyway. But I want you to get back to work and I’ll worry about Hollywood. Deal?”

“Deal.” My voice belies a confidence I do not feel.

“Mia, one more thing? I don’t want to impede your creative process, and I understand that in sci-fi/fantasy there’s the obvious need to suspend disbelief, but I’m really having a hard time buying that teenage zombies in love have so much to say about wallpaper. Get it together; get it done. Talk soon!”

Natalie sounds harsh, but she’s my agent, not my bestie. Her job is to make sure I’m delivering contracted work, not only on time, but of a certain caliber. She’s actually being a good friend by being tough on me, and I’m always the one who says fifteen percent of nothing is nothing.

I need her to kick me in the ass.

I need to get my head on straight and write this book.

I need to finish on time.

I need to get paid.

But first, I need to address this drawer-pull situation.

And find a new mailbox.

“I bet she’d be more comfortable at a hotel. Matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”

I keep my eyes on the piece of floor where I’m removing carpet tacks, saying nothing.

“Yes, yes,” Mac continues, gathering steam. “A hotel sounds great. Perfect, in fact. I read about a boutique hotel in Meridian Road magazine and it’s in downtown AC. Stag’s Leap Inn. Won the Brides’ Choice Award in 2010.”

“They must be really proud of themselves,” I note mildly.

“The inn’s part of the National Trust for Historic Preservation. Their dining room’s listed in the Distinguished Restaurants of North America guide.”

“Fancy,” I acquiesce, giving a particularly rusty spike a good, hard yank with my pliers. It finally releases and I stagger backward with the force of its removal.

Mac paces behind me as I work. “The amenities are top-notch: high-thread-count sheets, a flat-panel television in both rooms for suites and in the bathroom, plus L’Occitane products, a gourmet minibar, and your daily choice of three newspapers.”

“Neat.”

As soon as I’m finished removing all the carpet tacks/nails/ other protrusions, we can start smoothing out the hardwood. I’ve got a little belt sander for the edges and the detail work, while Mac’s responsible for running the rented orbital sander across the floors in the rest of this bedroom. We’ve already torn up the carpet¹⁰² and ripped out the padding. Judging from the stains on both, someone here had dogs, many, many large, incontinent dogs.

“Their fitness room is state-of-the-art, and they do five kinds of massage in the spa.”

“I was unaware five kinds of massage existed.” My bangs keep falling in my face and I keep brushing them aside. I’m overdue for a haircut, but I kind of don’t want to spend the money.

“They do and they have them. Full beauty salon, too, plus a twenty-four-hour concierge service.”

I swat at those annoying stray strands again. “Interesting. So, are they paying you a commission?”