Finally, he cleared his throat. “What about the foundation? Now, that’s the first place you should look. I know a good contractor… Honey, what was the name of the boy who went to school with Jake whose father had a Rottweiler he used to let roam the golf course? You know who I’m talking about? I think his name was Rudy.”
“Yes, yes. But wasn’t that the dog’s name?”
And then everyone started in again.
Phoebe looked around the table at all the uncooperative faces that belonged to her.
“I don’t know why I tell you people anything.” She pushed her plate away.
Grandma Elsie, having finished her soup, set a trembling hand atop Phoebe’s and gripped it. “Old houses are a lot of work. But…” She turned to the rest of them, as if to impart some gold thread of wisdom.
Everyone quieted.
“But what, Nana?” Phoebe prompted.
Elsie narrowed her eyes. “But I don’t see dessert. Where did that cheesecake get to?”
* * *
Now, having sold one house, bought another, and survived six months into the renovation, Phoebe squealed into the preschool parking lot in the nick of time. The boys were in good spirits, each clutching a wet finger painting. Phoebe set the paintings on the backseat as she helped the boys into their car seats and held back a curse when one painting slipped, leaving a trail of blue across the black leather.
“I’m hungry!” Patrick announced.
“Macaroni?” Jed asked.
Phoebe hopped in the driver’s seat. “Don’t forget the cheese,” she said, and both boys cheered. Ah, the simple victory of two toddlers climbing into the car with smiles instead of tears!
As she pulled into their driveway, Phoebe smirked with pleasure. The cottage was under renovation, she was still speaking to her family, and just as she’d predicted they’d thus far survived the deadly dust and debris. She swept through the door on the heels of the boys, dumping her paint store samples on the entryway table. Past the original fieldstone fireplace and across the honey-hued pine floors. (No matter that they were mottled with scratches and stains from the years, her contractor Dave had assured her they could be salvaged!) The contractors were done for the day, having finished replacing the windows on the back of the house. But the smell of freshly sawn wood still lingered in the air, and Phoebe tipped her head back with pleasure. Was she the only woman who wished it could be bottled and worn as cologne?
In the kitchen she pulled a saucepan from the cupboard and set a box of macaroni on the orange Formica countertops. The room was a screaming homage to the seventies, a visual onslaught of dated appliances and peeling floral wallpaper that clung as stubbornly to the decade as it did to the walls. But Phoebe could imagine a family crowding in there, reaching for a pitcher of Kool-Aid in the fridge, grabbing some Jiffy Pop off the stove before racing down to the beach. She had plans to make their own twenty-first-century family memories. Walls would be knocked down. New cabinetry installed. Fresh paint. Sparkling stainless steel appliances. All while salvaging the original character—the leaded glass windows, the exposed beams, and one of her favorite touches: the rear Dutch door. She opened it now, stepping out to the stone patio. The macaroni and cheese could wait.
“Come on, boys,” she said. “Let’s go see if we can spot that mother duck and her ducklings.” Phoebe trailed her children down the steps to the edge of the lake and stood squinting into the high sun. Both boys bent down and began splashing. From somewhere out on the lake came the thrum of a motorboat. It was the cusp of summer. The possibilities were endless.
Olivia
When she stepped outside, she found that the late-day haze had lifted, and the June humidity had given way to a gentle breeze. She tilted her face to it. Summer had barely begun, and it was teasingly moody. Rainy mornings sizzled away beneath a vibrant sun. A perfect afternoon could be interrupted by a thunderstorm, driving unsuspecting boaters off the water, only to lure them back to the dock moments later with a dewy rainbow. Olivia liked this about the New England lake region. It was temperamental. Just like her father in his New York kitchen, she mused. One’s patience was almost always rewarded when the storm ceased.
The old barn door squeaked on its rollers as Olivia slid it ajar. In the cool recess of the studio, she hesitated, allowing her eyes to adjust. She’d been working as an apprentice and assistant for only the past year, but already this place felt like home. Her boss, the famous sculptor Ben Rothschild, had renovated the barn interior so that it operated as a four-season studio, and though it was still rustic in aesthetic and composition, the space was lofty and welcoming. She strode across the concrete floor, where jute grass rugs defined the separate spaces. Along the sides of the wall were work benches, which had been converted from horse stalls back when Ben and his wife, Marge, bought it in the 1970s. Then it had stalled eight horses, a tack room, and a hayloft. Now the only tools of trade were hand chisels, cloths, and sponges. The loft had been converted to an open-air office space. Downstairs housed the work area, large tables holding various works in progress. Ben’s medium was clay, though he also dabbled in bronze sculpture. At the moment, he was preparing for an autumn gallery tour with his latest series, a study in colonial-era farm animals, titled Beasts of Burden. As such he was finishing two large pieces. One was an equine sculpture, a mare poised in a swath of grass. Her neck was arched and her ears were pricked forward, inquisitively. Even in stillness, she looked flexed, as if she could flee at any moment. Ben understood horses. Marge was a lifelong dressage rider. Ben had told Olivia that before he attempted the sculpture, he’d tagged along with her to the equestrian stable in Roxbury where his wife boarded her horse, Hercules. “You cannot capture a living creature in sculpture until you are familiar with the way it moves. Watching Marge ride Hercules is like listening to music in three dimensions.”
Olivia was not familiar with either riding or horses, but she could see the truth in his sculpture. She stood beside the mare, noting the ripple of muscle through her bowed neck. The flare of her nostrils. There was life captured in that clay. It made something inside Olivia ache with an urge to create. She glanced across the room to the table in the corner by the window. It had been a gift from Jake. Sweet, soulful Jake who did not know a thing about sculpture or cooking or children. The three things that had thus far defined and shaped her world. Olivia still smiled when she recalled the afternoon when Ben had beckoned her out here suddenly to assist him with something important. As soon as she stepped into the barn and her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw Jake. Standing in the corner, beside the oak table, with that shy smile. With Ben’s permission, he’d set up an entire work space just for her, “by the window, so you have both light and shadow.” Beside the table there was a metal stool, for when she wasn’t standing, an assortment of sculpting tools, and a bucket. A bronze desk lamp arched its neck over the rough-hewn surface. But she had been unable to take her eyes off of Jake. “Happy birthday,” he’d said, softly.
Now, on that very table, beneath a white canvas tarp, her most current project waited. But there was no time for that today.
Upstairs in the loft, Olivia seated herself at the desk and opened the laptop. There were sixteen new emails. Most were inquiries about the upcoming September show. Two were from galleries updating Ben about sales. The last one was a message from the manager of a world-class resort on Cape Cod. Ben had sold a seal sculpture from his previous year’s maritime collection, titled Salt Works, to the seaside hotel. They’d sent a picture of the new installation in their main lobby. Ben would be pleased. Included with the manager’s letter was an invitation to stay at the resort for an evening of his choice, free of charge. Olivia sighed. She would have jumped at such a chance, but she knew Ben would never accept. He’d ask her to thank the gentleman, and leave it at that. Ben was too private, too humble. It was something she loved dearly about the man.