“You’re very blessed, sweetheart. And I’ll come visit as soon as you’re settled.” Valerie brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “More than anything, darling, I want you to be happy. You’re an intuitive young woman. Trust your instincts. Remember, you can always come home. Or, if you ever need me to come to you, call me, and I’ll be on the next flight.”
Maggie
Rows of historic homes stand tall and erect on both sides of the tree-lined street like medieval sentries protecting their inhabitants. Most feature slate roofs and Queen Anne towers. Some of the facades are painted handsome shades of taupe and gray while others bear the original century-old crimson brick. Wreaths of dried Christmas greens adorn many of the front doors, even though the New Year is already fourteen days old. Tricycles, toys, and strollers litter the porches of families with small children. Boxwood topiaries in iron urns grace the entryway at the home of a gardening enthusiast. Farther down the street, peeling paint and rotten shutters suggest a homeowner too strapped for cash to make repairs.
“West Avenue,” Maggie says, liking the sound of the name on her tongue. “A generic name for a charming street. I couldn’t have chosen better myself.”
She meant it as a compliment, but the tightening of her husband’s jaw warns her she’s irritated him.
Eric had insisted on following the moving van across country. He wanted to arrive in Richmond ahead of her to have the house ready when she got there. Something in him had shifted during the two weeks they’d been apart. She sensed it in the car on the way home from the airport. Something under the surface that he’s having to work hard to control. Obvious irritation, but is it anger as well? Maggie couldn’t put her finger on it. Did she do something to make him mad?
Eric opens the wrought iron gate and motions her up the brick steps to the columned stoop. At the front door, he hooks his arm around her neck, covering her eyes with his left hand while he unlocks the heavy black front door with his right.
“Why all the suspense?” she asks.
“It’s a surprise. Watch your step,” he says, and holds her arm as she crosses the threshold.
The smell of fresh paint greets her inside the foyer. When he drops his hand, she takes in the white walls and bare hardwood floors. Letting out a nervous giggle, she says in a teasing tone, “What’s so surprising about a flight of stairs and a narrow hallway?”
“You haven’t seen anything yet. I hired a decorator.”
Her brown eyes widen. There’s seemingly no end to the brokerage account Eric is always talking about. “A decorator? Can we afford that?”
Indignation crosses his handsome face. “I told you, Mags. You don’t have to worry about money.”
“Easier said than done for a girl who put herself through college.”
He hangs his fleece on the wooden rack by the door, but when he moves to take off her coat, she snuggles inside the warmth of her down parka. “I’ll leave it on for now. It’s chilly in here.”
“Better get used to it. Old houses can be drafty.”
She smiles at him. “I guess I’ll have to buy more sweaters.”
He sweeps his hand at the wide doorway to his right. “After you.”
She takes tentative steps down the hallway, stopping short in the doorway. Hard edges and glimmering surfaces make up the decor in the living room. Everything is white—upholstery and carpet and walls—with the exception of an abstract painting in bright colors above the fireplace mantel. The übercontemporary style is a drastic departure from the eclectic mix of furnishings in their apartment back home.
Beside her, Eric asks, “Well? What do you think?”
“It’s pretty. Although not exactly what I was expecting.” She searches the room for a familiar lamp or framed picture or knickknack. “Where’s all our stuff?”
“I got rid of most everything,” he says. “None of it fit with our new style.”
Maggie drops her head, staring at him from beneath a heavy brow. “Our new style? This is all so contemporary. My tastes lean toward traditional.”
“Your tastes lean toward tacky.” He laughs, as though he’s joking, but she can tell he’s dead serious.
Maggie stiffens. “That was uncalled for.”
She’s expecting an apology. Instead, he brushes past her into the living room. Standing at the fireplace, he stares up at the painting, which Maggie now sees is a school of fish. All of the fish are red with the exception of one lone yellow fish swimming against the others. She wonders if the decorator chose the painting or if Eric picked it out himself. Does he identify with the yellow fish in some way? Does he consider himself the odd man out, swimming against the school of norm?
“We have a certain image to uphold, honey. I want to make a good impression on my new business associates. Your collection of yard sale furnishings wasn’t cutting it.”
She trails him into the room. “We’re married now, Eric. We’re a team. I’m hurt, and more than a little annoyed, that you made all these decisions without consulting me. You can’t go throwing my belongings away without asking me. I had sentimental attachments to my possessions.”
“Then you’ll have to develop sentimental attachments to your new possessions.” He waves his hand above his head. “Like this painting. I paid a small fortune for it. Isn’t it cool?”
“It looks like a kindergartner painted it.” Maggie turns away from him, crossing into the adjoining sitting room where she’s relieved to see her treasured collection of biographies and historical accounts of world events organized alphabetically on shelves that line one wall. She proceeds into the kitchen. The clean look continues here with white walls and cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. A round black table and four chairs nestle inside the bay window. As she stares out into the courtyard garden, she imagines summer barbecues on the slate patio with new friends. Being able to buy a house is the bright side of having to move three thousand miles away from her family.
Eric rejoins her as she continues her tour on the second floor. At the top of the stairs, he takes her hand and leads her into the master bedroom. The marble-top oak bureau from their apartment in Portland made the cut, but Eric has replaced her four-poster mahogany queen from childhood with a king that has a tufted headboard.
Sunlight streams in through a bay window identical in size to the one in the kitchen. Moving to the window, she watches an elderly gentleman on the sidewalk below walking his three corgis on leashes. Closing her eyes, she imagines the maple trees lining both sides of the street when they leaf out in the spring and turn golden orange in the fall.
“Come, let me show you the biggest surprise of all.” Bracing her shoulders, he marches her out of the master bedroom and down the hall to the back of the house.
“What’s in there?” she asks as they pass a closed door on the right.
“An empty room. We can either use it as a guest bedroom or a home office.”
He swings open a door at the end of the hall, revealing a nursery decked out for a newborn—with crib, comfortable rocker, and chest of drawers doubling as a changing table.
Maggie doesn’t trust her eyes. She blinks hard, but when she opens them again, the scene in front of her hasn’t changed. “We agreed to wait a few years before starting a family.”