Bygones

  Michael took her coat, hung it behind a louvered door and turned back to her. “Well, this is it.” He spread his hands. “These are guest bedrooms. . . .” Light came through two doors to their right. “Each one has its own bath.” They were identical in size and had generous windows. One bedroom was empty, the other held a drafting table and chair. She glanced over the rooms as she followed Michael, carrying a clipboard, measuring tape and pen, leaving her purse on the floor in the foyer.

  “Do these windows face due north?”

  “More like northwest,” he replied.

  She decided to put off her note-taking and measuring until she'd moved through the entire place, to get a sense of each of its rooms in relationship to the whole. They advanced beyond the entry to an interior octagonal space in the center of which the second chandelier hung. It appeared to be the hub of the apartment, created of four flat walls and four doorways.

  “The architect calls this a gallery,” Michael said, stopping dead center in the middle of the octagon.

  Bess turned in a circle and looked up at the chandelier. “It's very dramatic . . . or can be.”

  They had entered the gallery from the hall door. Michael indicated the others. “Kitchen, combination living room/dining room, and utility area and powder room off this small hall. Which would you like to see first?”

  “Let's see the living room.” She stepped into it to be washed in light and delight. The room faced south-by-southeast, had a marble fireplace on the northerly wall, another chandelier at the south end and two sets of sliding glass doors—a triple and a double—that gave onto a deck overlooking the frozen lake. Between the two doors the wall took a turn at an obtuse angle.

  “It's just struck me, Michael, this place isn't rectangular, is it?”

  “No, it's not. The entire building is arrow-shaped, and this unit is at the point of the arrow, so I guess you'd call it oblique.”

  “Oh, how marvelous. If you knew how many rectangular rooms I've designed you'd know how exciting this is.” Though the two guest bedrooms were rectangular, this room was a modified wedge. “Show me the rest.”

  The kitchen was done in white tile and Formica with blond oak woodwork. It was combined with an informal family room, which had sliding doors giving onto the same deck that wrapped around the entire apartment on the lake side. The laundry area was in a wedge-shaped space beside a powder room, both leading off the gallery. The master bedroom led off the living room and shared its fireplace flue. Besides the fireplace, the bedroom had yet another set of glass doors leading onto the deck, a walk-in closet and a bathroom big enough to host a basketball game.

  In the bathroom, the smell of Michael's cosmetics was as evocative as that of fresh-cut grass. A rechargeable razor sat on the vanity with its tiny red light glowing. Beside it lay his toothbrush and a tube of Close-Up. The shower door was wet and on a towel bar hung a horrendous beach towel with fireworks designs in gaudy colors on a black background. No washcloth. He'd always used his hands.

  Shame on you, Bess, you're regressing.

  In the bedroom her glance slid over his mattresses and returned for a second take, then moved on as if the sight of them lumped on the floor had not stirred old memories. He must have left Darla taking nothing. Even his blankets were new; the fold lines still showed. How ironic, Bess thought, I'll probably end up choosing his bedspread again. Already she was envisioning the room with the bed and window treatment matching.

  “Well, that's it,” Michael said.

  “I must say, Michael, I'm impressed.”

  “Thank you.”

  They returned to the living room with its magnificent scope. “The way the building blends with the land, and how the architect utilized the mature trees, the contour of the lakeshore and even the little park next door—it all becomes a part of the interior design as well as the exterior. The outdoors is actually taken inside through these magnificent stretches of glass, while at the same time the trees lend privacy.” Bess strode the length of the room, admiring the view through the windows while Michael stood near the fireplace with his hands in his trouser pockets. “It's interesting,” Bess mused aloud, “clients are often surprised to learn that architects and interior designers rarely get along well at all. The reason is because very few architects design from the outside in the way this one did, consequently we're often called in to analyze the space use and handle the problems the architect left behind. In this case, that's not so. This guy really knew what he was doing.”

  Michael smiled. “I'll tell him you said so. He works for me.”

  From the opposite end of the room she faced him.

  “You built this building?”

  “Not exactly. I developed the property and arranged to have it built. The city of White Bear Lake came to me and asked me to do it.”

  “Ah . . .” Bess's eyebrows rose in approval. “I had no idea your projects had grown to this size. Congratulations.”

  Michael dipped his head, displaying an appealing mix of humility and pride.

  She was no appraiser but the building had to be worth several million dollars, and if the city came to him and invited him to do the job, he must have established a sterling reputation. So both of them—Michael and she—had made great strides since their breakup. “Do you mind if we continue moving from room to room while we talk?”

  “Not at all.”

  “It helps me recall where I've been and familiarize myself with the psychological impact of each room, how the light falls, the space there is to be filled and the space that should remain unfilled. It's kind of like kicking the tires on a car before you buy it.”

  They gave each other glancing grins and moved into the gallery, where they stopped directly beneath the chandelier. Bess braced her clipboard against her hip and said, “On with the questions. I've been doing all the talking and it's supposed to be the other way around during a house call. I'm here to listen to you.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Did you choose the carpet?”

  She'd noted that the same carpet was used throughout, with the exception of the kitchen and baths. It wasn't a color she'd have expected him to like. From the gallery she could glance to the sunny or shadowed side of the condo and observe its subtleties change.

  “No, it was here when I took over the place. Actually what happened was that this unit was sold to someone else, a couple named Sawyer, who intended it to be their retirement home. Mrs. Sawyer picked out the carpet and had it laid but before she and her husband could close on the place, he died. She decided to stay put, so I inherited the carpet.”

  “It's staying?”

  “It should. It's brand-new and I'm the first tenant.”

  “You say that as if you have reservations.”

  He pursed his lips and studied the carpeting. “I can live with it.”

  “Make sure before we plan a whole interior around it, and be aware that color affects your energy, your productivity, your ability to relax, many things. You're as affected by color as you are by texture and light and space. You should surround yourself with colors you're comfortable with.”

  “I can live with it,” he repeated.

  “And I can tone it down, make it more masculine by bringing out its gray rather than its rose, perhaps using a deep gray and a pastel lavender as an accent, maybe bringing in some black pieces. How does that sound?”

  “All right.”

  “Do you have a carpet sample I can take along?”

  “In the entry closet on the shelf. I'll give you a piece before you leave.”

  “What are your thoughts on mirrored walls?”

  “In here?” Michael looked up. They were still standing in the octagonal gallery.

  “An interior space like this would benefit from them. It could be dramatic to relight the chandelier in four mirror panels.”

  “It sounds dramatic. Let me think about it.”

  They moved into the room with the drafting table. “Do you work here?”
r />   “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Primarily in the evenings. Daytime I'm in the office.”

  Bess wandered nearer the drafting table. “Do you work—” she began but the question died on her lips. Taped onto an extension lamp over the drafting table was a picture of their two children, taken when they were about seven and nine, in the backyard after a water fight. They were freckled and smiling and squinting into the hard summer sun. Randy was missing a front tooth and Lisa's hair was sticking up in a messy swirl where the force of the hose had shot it.

  “Do I work . . . ?” Michael repeated.

  She knew full well he'd seen her reaction to the picture, but she was a businesswoman now and personal byplay had no place in this house call. Bess regrouped her emotions and went on.

  “Do you work every evening?”

  “I have been lately.” He didn't add, Since Darla and I broke up, but he didn't have to. It was obvious he sat here in this room regretting some things.

  “Would you ever be needing a desk in this room?”

  “That might be nice.”

  “File cabinets?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Shelving?”

  He wobbled a hand like a plane dipping its wings.

  “In order of preference, would you place this room high or low in the decorating order?”

  “Low.”

  “All right . . . let's move on.”

  They meandered to the other guest bedroom, and from there to the powder room, the gallery, the kitchen, ending up in the living room.

  “Tell me, Michael, what's your opinion of art deco?”

  “It can be a little stark but I've seen some I like.”

  “And glass—glass tabletops, for instance, as opposed to wood.”

  “Either is fine.”

  “Would you be entertaining in this room?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How many might you want to seat at one time?”

  “I don't know.”

  “A dozen maybe?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Six?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Would that entertaining be formal or informal?”

  “Informal, probably.”

  “Meals . . .” She moved to the end of the room where the chandelier hung, studying the change of light on the carpet, imagining it on furniture as she moved from the light-realm of one window to another. “Would you ever entertain at sit-down meals?”

  “I have in the past.”

  “Will you use the fireplace or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you ever watch television in this room?”

  “No.”

  “How about a tape player or CD player?”

  “Probably I'd want that in the family room off the kitchen.”

  “Which do you prefer, vertical or horizontal lines?”

  “What?”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “That one usually throws people. Vertical or horizontal? One is restful, the other energetic.”

  “Vertical.”

  “Ah . . . energetic. Are you an early riser or a late riser?”

  “Early.” He always had been but she had to ask.

  “And how about the tail end of the day? Do you watch the David Letterman show?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Are you a night person, Michael?”

  He scratched his neck and grinned crookedly at the floor. “I remember a time when I was but it's funny how nature takes care of that for you when you reach middle age.”

  She smiled and went on to her next subject. “Give me your opinion of this chandelier.” She looked up at the ceiling.

  He wandered nearer and looked up, too. “It reminds me of grapefruit sections,” he said.

  She laughed. “Grapefruit sections?”

  “Yeah, those pieces of smoky glass all standing on end like that. Aren't they shaped like grapefruit sections?”

  “Skinny ones, maybe. Do you like it?”

  “Mmm . . .” He studied it pensively. “Yeah, I like it a lot.”

  “Good. So do I.”

  She made a note about repeating smoked glass in the tables and another about café doors as she moved through a wide doorway into the family room/kitchen. In this room the view had curved away from the lake and focused instead on a tall stand of cottonwood trees—naked now in winter—and a small town park with a white gazebo. Thankfully there were no swing sets or playground equipment, which would be desirable for a young family, not for a building that catered to older, wealthier people.

  “What happens in the park?” she asked.

  “Picnics in the summer, I guess. That's about all.”

  “No band concerts, no boat launching?”

  “No. Boats are launched over at the county beach or at the White Bear Yacht Club.”

  “Will you launch one?”

  “Maybe. I've thought about it.”

  “A lot of sailboats on the lake, aren't there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I imagine you're looking forward to watching them from both inside and out on the deck.”

  “Sure.”

  She made a note about vertical blinds and sauntered toward the kitchen island, where a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread and some throw-away containers created his bachelor's pantry. She glanced over the pitiful collection, then looked away because it brought a sharp desire to play housewife, and neither of them needed that.

  “Will this be a working kitchen?” she asked, her back to Michael as she waited for an answer.

  It took some time before he replied, “No.”

  She gathered her composure and turned to rest her clipboard on the island. “Are there any hobbies of yours I should know about?”

  “They haven't changed since six years ago. Hunting and the outdoors but I go up to my cabin for that.”

  “Have you developed any allergies?”

  His eyebrows puckered. “Allergies?”

  “It has to do with fabrics and fibers,” she explained.

  “No allergies.”

  “Then I guess all that's left to ask about is the budget. Have you thought about a range you want me to work within?”

  “Just do it the way you'd do it for yourself. You were always good at it, and I trust you.”

  “All of it?”

  “Well . . .” He glanced around uncertainly. “I guess so.”

  “The guest bedroom, too?”

  His eyes came back to her. “I hate empty rooms,” he said.

  “Yes . . .” she agreed, “and it is the first room a visitor sees when he steps into the foyer.”

  She had the illogical impulse to go to him, take him in her arms for a moment, pat his back and say, It'll be all right, Michael, I'll fill it with things so it isn't so lonely, though she knew perfectly well a home full of things could not substitute for a home full of people.

  She looked down at her clipboard. “I'll need to take some measurements. Would you mind helping me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I've tried to sketch the layout of the unit but it's unusual enough to be difficult.”

  “I have some floor plans at the office that were done for the sales people. I'll send you one.”

  “Oh, that would be helpful. Meanwhile, shall we measure?”

  They spent the next twenty minutes at opposite ends of a surveyor's tape, getting room and window dimensions. When they were all tidily written on her rough floor plan, she cradled the clipboard against her arm and reeled in the tape.

  “What happens next?” he asked as they returned to the foyer, where he retrieved her coat and held it for her.

  “I'll take all these dimensions and transfer them onto graph paper, room by room. Then I'll go ‘shopping' through my catalogs and come up with a furniture plan, window treatments, fabric and wallpaper samples. I'll also have all the suggested furniture cut out to scale on magnetic plastic so they can be arranged on the floor p
lan. When all that is done I'll give you a call and we'll get together for the presentation. I usually do that at my store after hours because all my books and samples are there and it makes it easier without customers interrupting. Then, too, if you don't like something I've suggested we can go into other books and look for something else.”

  “So when will I hear from you?”

  Her coat was buttoned and she drew on her gloves. “I'll try to get on it right away and get back to you within a week, since you're living in rather Spartan conditions. I don't see anything wrong with playing favorites and putting you ahead of some of my other clients, do you?”

  She flashed him a professional smile and extended her gloved hand. “Thank you, Michael.”

  He took it, squeezing hard. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “Your forty-dollar trip charge.”

  “Oh, that. I initiated the trip charge merely to dissuade lonely people who only want company for an afternoon—and you'd be amazed how many of them there are. But it's obvious you need furniture, and you're not some stranger whose intentions I question.”

  “Business is business, Bess, and if there's a trip charge, I'll pay it.”

  “All right, but why don't I bill you for it?”

  “Absolutely not. Wait here.”

  He went into the room with the drafting table, leaving her in the empty foyer. She watched him through the doorway, stretching her gloves on tighter. She picked up her clipboard, her purse, and watched him some more, then followed him into the room, where he was making out the check with one hand flat on the drafting table, his elbow jutting.

  The photo was still there, compelling. She studied it over his angled shoulders and said quietly, “They were adorable when they were that age, weren't they?”

  He stopped writing, looked at the picture awhile and tore out the check before turning to Bess. His gaze lingered on her, then traveled once more to the picture.

  “Yes, they were.”