The Fixer Upper (16 page)

Macie Colwyn kept fluttering like a red cape in front of Ned. Not that he was a bull, but she certainly seemed to be inviting him to charge at her.

Ned was not in the mood. He was enraged at the world, most especially that part of the world occupied by Libby Kimmelman, who had not phoned him since their terse, snarly conversation Saturday evening. What had he done to deserve her wrath?

All right, so
wrath
might be an overstatement. She’d snipped and snapped at him, clarified that her daughter’s well-being was more important than he was—a legitimate
claim; he wouldn’t quarrel with that—and implied that she would let him know once Reva was home, safe and sound.

Now it was Monday, and he still hadn’t heard from her.

He assumed Reva had made it home. If she hadn’t, the newspapers would have been full of stories about a missing young teenager from the Upper West Side. Even in New York City, Reva’s disappearance would have made headlines.

So Reva had returned home and Libby hadn’t called. Add it up and the sum didn’t appeal to Ned.

Let her hate him. Let her cut him out of her life. He could survive that. But whatever she had a bug up her ass about, if she let it influence her decision on Eric’s admission to the Hudson School, he would never forgive her.

“What I was thinking,” Macie said, her hair featuring some new coppery highlights that clashed with the purple ones, “is pillars in the bathroom.”

“The bathroom?” Ned nearly dropped the tape measure he’d been using to block in the locations for the major appliances in what would eventually be her kitchen. “You want columns in the bathroom?”

“Just the master bath,” she clarified.

“Why?”

“It’ll give the room a Roman-orgy feel. What do you think?”

One thing he thought was that a bathroom didn’t strike him as a particularly promising location for an orgy. The master bath in this apartment would be spacious by Manhattan standards, but it certainly wouldn’t be big enough to hold an orgy in. All those hard surfaces wouldn’t be too comfortable, either.

“We’ve already talked about the tub design,” Macie continued. “Marble, sunken, dramatic. If you framed the tub with two pillars—I envision the Corinthian kind, just like in the living room—it would be terribly sensuous.”

Emphasis on
terrible,
Ned concluded grimly. He inched backward because Macie was standing too close to him, her pointy high-heel boots nearly touching his steel-toed work shoes and her perfume, something heavy and musky, clogging his nostrils. He didn’t like standing so close to a client, especially while discussing terribly sensuous tubs.

“You’d lose valuable floor space,” he argued.

“How valuable is floor space in a bathroom?”

He sighed. “Then there’s the cost….”

“Money is no object,” she told him. “You’re a flexible man, Ned. You can be flexible about this.”

Ned’s flexibility had limits. Perhaps if Macie had hit him up with this orgy brainstorm when he’d been in better spirits—another outing with Libby on his agenda, maybe a date that would entail some time alone in a more private place than the alcove of a shoe store on Broadway—he’d say what the hell and order some Corinthian columns for Macie’s master bath. But he wasn’t in good spirits. “What does your husband think?” he asked.

“About the bathroom? He doesn’t care, as long as it’s got a toilet.” Macie dismissed Ned’s concern with a wave of her hand. Mitch had mentioned that Colwyn was significantly older than his punk-artist wife. The poor guy might have a coronary if he wandered into the master bath and found himself in the midst of a Roman orgy. Of course, more than columns were required to make an orgy, but an old man with a frisky wife and a sunken marble tub…Ned didn’t want the man’s death on his head.

“I don’t think the columns would work in the bathroom,” he said, because he wasn’t in the mood to accommodate anyone right now, not even the client.

“In the bedroom, too,” Macie said, as if he hadn’t even spoken. “A couple of columns sort of framing the bed. That entire part of the loft could have a sybaritic feel.”

Great. She wanted sybaritic. He wanted some socks to throw against a wall. “Macie, let me be frank with you,” he said.

“I wish you would,” she purred, shifting closer to him again. He eyed her boots with some concern. The toes were so pointed he wondered if they could puncture the leather covering his insteps.

“Sybaritic is the sort of thing you count on a decorator for. You can go with big pillows, animal skin prints, whatever. I’m focused on the structure. Where the rooms go, how they make sense, how they’ll contribute to comfortable living. Anything else, you should work with an interior designer.”

“But you do the pillars, don’t you?” She peered up at him and batted her eyelashes. Given the unnatural smoothness and immobility of her forehead, he figured she must have undergone more than a few Botox injections between her eyebrows in the not too distant past. She was lucky she could still blink.

“They’re columns,” he emphasized, just to be contrary. Pillars, columns—what they really were was pretentious. “Right now, let us finish framing the rooms. We can deal with the cosmetics later.”

“I thought it would be easier if you ordered the pillars—I mean columns—in bulk.”

Oh, sure. Column manufacturers loved bulk orders.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to respond, because the cell phone hooked onto his belt started chirping. It belonged to Mitch, or more accurately to the company. Mitch liked to be able to contact his crews, so he supplied the foreman of each crew with a cell phone. One of these days, Ned supposed he’d have to subscribe to his own personal cell-phone service. Sooner or later, Eric would deem himself old enough to roam the city with his friends, and Ned wouldn’t
want to go nuts worrying about him the way Libby worried about Reva.

“Excuse me,” he said to Macie, grateful for the excuse to turn away from her. He unclipped the phone, flipped it open and pressed the button. “Ned Donovan here.”

“Ned?” Mitch’s secretary said. “You just got a call here at the office from a woman named Libby…Kibble, I think. She said she’s at work and you could call her there.”

Libby Kibble
. Ned permitted himself a grin. “Did she say what it’s about?”

“No, just that you can call her at work. Do you need the number?”

Ned wasn’t in any rush to return her call, but he balanced his clipboard against one of the studs in a wall that wasn’t yet finished and jotted down the number the secretary provided. After thanking her, he flipped the phone shut.

He stared at the number for a minute, then tucked the clipboard under his arm and yanked the tab on the tape measure. If he looked busy enough, maybe Macie would leave him alone. Let her go bug one of the other guys. They had the boom box tuned to a Latino station and they were happily chatting about an acquaintance who did a brisk business bootlegging cigarettes from Virginia, where the retail price of a pack was about two bucks less than in New York. Maybe they’d like to discuss whether someone wearing shoes as pointy as Macie’s would be able to stub out a cigarette on the ground.

The Sub-Zero would go here, he thought, measuring the dimensions carefully and marking them on the floor. The dishwasher had to go right next to the sink to simplify the plumbing. Screw Libby Kibble. He’d phone her when he felt like it, and not a minute sooner.

Unless, of course, her call had something to do with Eric’s application.

Shit.

He snapped the tape measure shut though he remained kneeling on the floor, staring at the dusty boards but seeing too many other things: boots—not Macie’s but wild, colorful patchwork cowboy boots. Eyes, large and dark and framed with a few lovely, human lines. Hair that was silky and wavy and natural. A mouth…

Shit.

If the reason she’d called him was to discuss Eric, when there was so much else they should be talking about, so much else they should be aiming for, he’d hate her. And if the reason she’d called him was to discuss all those things they should be talking about, well, he’d hate her for having not called him sooner.

Either way, he wanted to throw socks.

He’d call her back later. Much later. Maybe.

B
y the time Libby phoned Ned’s work number, she’d already spent two hours interviewing prospective Hudson kindergarteners. She’d listened to five-year-old Anna Weinblatt recite a garbled version of the Gettysburg Address, after which she’d admitted that she had no idea what Gettysburg was but its address was too long to fit on an envelope. Libby had also discussed the environment with five-year-old Anna Pelletier, who’d explained that global warming was something like what happened to Hot Pockets in the microwave. And she’d witnessed five-year-old Anna Rossini’s rendition of a song from
Annie
—her favorite musical, because it almost had the same name as her. Anna Rossini had an unfortunate speech impediment, and the song had come out as “It’s a hard-wuck wife,” but Libby had somehow managed to keep a straight face throughout the entire performance.

She’d also interviewed five-year-old Justin Belkow, who
was oddly fixated on rye bread. “I like the kind with seeds in it,” he’d told her. “Those seeds, you know what I mean?”

“Caraway seeds,” she’d said helpfully.

“Yeah. They look like dirty fingernails.”

Libby had decided she would never again eat seeded rye.

As she emerged from the playroom with Justin, Tara caught her eye. “Your husband phoned while you were doing the interview,” she said.

“Harry?”

“Yeah. He’s at his office and he wants you to call him ASAP.”

I’d rather call him a-s-s,
Libby retorted silently, annoyed that he would identify himself as her husband. She shut herself in her office and dialed his work number. Her gaze strayed to her desk calendar. Three more interviews with prospective students today, and one meeting with a mother. She’d inked a star next to the mother’s name, which meant either the mother was a Hudson alumna or she’d promised a huge donation to the capital fund. Neither detail would guarantee her kid a place at the school, but if Libby had that kind of information about the parent ahead of time, it helped. Forewarned was forearmed.

Harry’s secretary answered and Libby gave her name. She was put on hold.

Swell. She had a crammed schedule, she was still recovering from Reva’s delinquent behavior on Saturday, she was still recovering from whatever had happened between her and Ned Donovan on Friday, and Harry put her on hold. The bastard.

“Libby.” He broke the silence on the line.

“I’m very busy, so—”

“I just had an appointment cancel on me. I have two hours open this afternoon. Meet me at the bank and you can get your mortgage application started.”

The calendar before her went blank. Or maybe it was her
mind that went blank. What exactly had Harry said? “My mortgage application?”

“For the apartment.”

“Are you serious?”

“When am I not serious?”

She realized the answer was never. “Why? I mean, what made you decide—”

“I told you, a client canceled on me.” He said nothing for a moment, then, “Reva needs stability in her life. After the
mishegas
she pulled this weekend, she needs parameters. She needs roots. We can’t have her roving around the city not knowing where her home is.”

“Okay.” Libby wasn’t sure a connection existed between their daughter’s unplanned jaunt to Greenwich Village and her need to continue living in the same apartment, but she wasn’t going to argue with Harry. “When do you want me to meet you at the bank?”

“I’ll be there at two-thirty. Set it up.” With that, he disconnected the call. Typical Harry: even when he was doing something nice, he had to be unpleasant about it.

The calendar came into focus again, with all her appointments written on the page. Libby buzzed Tara and asked her to rearrange the schedule. Tom Hedrick, the math specialist who was one of this year’s faculty members on the admissions committee, could interview the children. The wealthy-alumna mother could be rescheduled. Libby was going to buy her apartment.

Oy. The thought of signing that mortgage and committing herself to a loan big enough to support a rural village in China for several years scared the hell out of her. Losing her home scared her even more. So she’d commit herself to a crushing debt for the next fifteen years. So what? That was better than moving to Jersey.

She phoned the bank, begged and pleaded, and won a
place on a mortgage officer’s schedule for two-thirty. Hanging up, she glanced at her watch. A few minutes past one. She’d have to stop off at home to get her paperwork—the sales contract she’d been sent by the management company, with its nonnegotiable insider price, and all her documents attesting to her wealth, which was skimpy enough that the word
wealth
really didn’t apply. If she left at one-thirty, she’d make it to the bank in time.

She looked at her watch again. She had to tell someone what she was about to do.

The first person she thought of was Ned.

She should have phoned him yesterday. Or Saturday evening, once Reva was safely home. He’d asked her to call him, but she’d been too upset with Reva on Saturday and too upset with herself on Sunday. What kind of mother was she? How could she have raised a daughter who would do such a thing? Reva’s misbehavior was all Libby’s fault because she was the custodial parent. Okay, maybe Harry deserved a tiny sliver of blame for having walked out on his wife and daughter, but Libby had obviously failed Reva far more profoundly.

Ned was a single parent, and his son was charming—bright, funny, poised and polite. Unlike Reva, who used to be all those things but had turned like a container of milk two weeks after its sell-by date. How could Libby telephone a perfect father like Ned and tell him what a loser she was?

Yet now, when she was about to become a proud but deeply indebted homeowner, the first person she wished to tell was Ned. Not Vivienne, not Gilda and Irwin, not even Reva, whose hopes Libby preferred not to raise until the mortgage application was approved and the sale went through, and who was still on Libby’s shit list, anyway. She wanted to call Ned.

And say what? “I am unworthy, but I wanted to share my
happiness with you.” No, because the mortgage application might fall through. “I am unworthy, but I wanted to share my
potential
happiness with you.” “I am a lousy mother and a lousy friend, and I’m still not sure if Friday night was a date, but I wanted you to know that the fireplace can be renovated without the management company being dragged into the process.”

That was it: she’d tell him he could work on her fireplace. With her insecurities foaming all over the surface of her ego, she didn’t think she could discuss anything else with him. But he dreamed of giving her fireplace the chance to be all it could be, so she’d tell him he now had clearance to actualize her hearth.

His work number was filed with Eric’s application. The woman who answered told her Ned was at a job site and would have to call her back, and she’d promised to inform him of Libby’s call. Libby stared at her phone for a few minutes, hoping he would call back immediately, but it didn’t ring. Sighing, she packed her briefcase, donned her blazer and headed for the apartment that she could once again think of as her home.

She stored her papers regarding the apartment in a drawer of her dresser. Her apartment folder contained letters from the management company, the sales offer, the sheets of scrap paper on which she’d calculated what she could afford each month in mortgage, taxes and common fees, the amount she could use as a down payment…God, those numbers seemed paltry, she thought as she thumbed through the folder to make sure no documents were missing. If Harry truly wished to increase the stability in Reva’s life, maybe he could contribute more than a quarter of a million dollars toward the down payment. A third of a million dollars would make Reva more stable, wouldn’t it?

The local bank where Libby had her savings and check
ing accounts offered competitive mortgage rates. She figured they would be more likely to approve her because she’d been banking there for fourteen years. Of course, in those fourteen years, the bank had undoubtedly familiarized itself with her finances, which might work against her.

But Harry would be there. They couldn’t possibly say no to Harry. He was a corporate attorney with a very big income.

She spotted him standing inside the glass-enclosed ATM lobby as she approached the bank’s Broadway entrance. If he’d been waiting a long time, he might be in a cranky mood. Well, screw it. He had left her on hold, after all. He could wait.

Weren’t banks supposed to shout money? Libby’s local branch bank shouted airline terminal, and when she joined Harry inside the entry she half expected to hear a disembodied voice reminding her not to leave her bags unattended. The floor was linoleum, the walls pale and unadorned, the chairs molded plastic, the lighting bright and bluish. As Harry surveyed the bank, his expression grew pinched. He was probably used to banks with plush carpeting, paneled walls and Winslow Homer prints in gilt frames. The banks where he did his business likely resembled Libby’s office at Hudson. A venerable private school, a venerable financial institution—all that class required high-quality decor.

“Thank you,” she said effusively as they left the ATM lobby for the main room. “I really appreciate this.”

Harry nodded, and Libby noticed a slight softness underlining his chin. He was aging. In the not too distant future he’d have jowls, just like his father. The possibility made her smile.

“We’ve got to keep a closer eye on Reva,” he said.

Libby’s smile faded. By “we” she knew he meant
she
had to keep a closer eye on Reva. Fine. If he’d help her buy the
apartment, she’d put Reva on a leash, or maybe get her one of those electronic ankle bracelets that could track her movements. Was there some sort of satellite-controlled global positioning system parents could hook their teenage children up to?

If there was, Harry would have to pay for it. Once Libby was done signing all the papers the bank would require of her, she wouldn’t be able to afford a pen to write “Reva, call home” on a Post-it.

The mortgage officer was a thin man named Sharma, with an Indian accent and tawny cheeks covered in peach fuzz. The Hudson lower school matriculated students who looked older than him. Libby didn’t like having to beg for money from someone at least ten years her junior, but she needed what he had.

Sharma seemed perplexed that a divorced couple was buying a single unit. “You are not going to live there together?”

“No,” Harry and Libby said in unison, perhaps a bit too emphatically.

“You are going to buy this apartment together, but not live there together?”

“She’s buying it,” Harry said. “I’m just helping.” Libby was both touched by his generosity in presenting her as the apartment’s future owner, and irked by his insinuation that she couldn’t buy it without his help. Which she couldn’t, but still.

Now was not the time for pride. Stoically, she provided Sharma with all the numbers requested: her monthly gross income, her monthly net income, her savings, the current sum in her pension fund, photocopies of her last three income-tax returns, projections of future earnings, Harry’s child-support payments, any possible inheritances on the horizon—gee, maybe her parents would do her a favor and die soon—and on and on.

She signed papers. Harry cosigned everything she signed. If she allowed herself, she would fret about what, besides her entire financial future, she was signing away. Her independence? Her autonomy? Her right to call herself a self-supporting single woman?

“Face it, Libby—you need someone to cosign,” Harry muttered to her while Sharma was shuffling and sorting his countless multicolored forms. “If I don’t cosign, they’ll turn you down.”

Once again, Libby was irritated by Harry’s ability to give with one hand while taking with another. He was probably right that the bank would reject her application without his signature on it, so she really ought to be grateful. But she hated having to depend on him. She’d never shared his ambition about earning big bucks in a Wall Street firm, and now he was making her feel like a hypocrite for tapping into those big bucks of his.

Practicality trumped ego, however. She’d let him cosign, she’d accept his down payment—hell, she’d give him a key to the apartment if he’d enable her to purchase it.

Ninety-four minutes after they’d entered Sharma’s office, Libby found herself standing outside in the fading sunlight with Harry. Sharma had said the application process would take roughly a month, and an appraiser would contact her for an appointment to visit the apartment, even though he acknowledged that the insider price was obviously below market value. “With Manhattan real estate,” he’d said in his crisp accent, “you can never be too careful.”

Of course you could be too careful, Libby believed. If she’d been too careful, she would have moved out of the city long ago, found herself some middle-management job at an office park on Long Island and raised her daughter in a safe suburban house on a third-acre lot, just like the safe suburban house she’d grown up in outside Washington. Her
daughter would never have attended Mostly Mozart concerts or visited the Frick Museum. She would have watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on TV instead of in person, standing on a windswept corner amid a crowd of thousands and shrieking with joy when the gigantic Cat in the Hat balloon drifted down Broadway above her head. She would never have discovered some grungy street-corner singer named Darryl Something in Central Park.

Reva hadn’t been too careful. She took after her mother that way, unfortunately.

“Where is Reva?” Harry asked, as if he’d tuned in to Libby’s thoughts.

Libby checked her wristwatch again. “Home.”

“By herself?” He scowled, his symmetrical brows dipping above his nose and his thin lips tightening. “She’s home all by herself?”

Libby inhaled for strength. “I work,” she reminded him. “If she has an after-school activity, she stays at Hudson and we go home together. If she doesn’t, she goes home alone. I can’t end my workday at three-thirty just because she ends her school day then.”