I'm So Happy for You (17 page)

It wasn’t Gretchen’s fault that Wendy still wasn’t pregnant, Wendy reminded herself. It was also true that Gretchen had had
a difficult time conceiving. Yet, Wendy found herself increasingly scandalized by Gretchen’s blasé attitude toward parenting.
Gretchen had planned on taking three months off after Lola and Liam were born. Three months had quickly turned into three
weeks. Sara claimed to have seen her on her headset, cold-calling Goodwill ambassadors to the United Nations, while still
in the delivery room. Or did Gretchen know something that Wendy didn’t know? Were babies actually really boring and annoying,
even babies who didn’t cry all day long like Lucas Rose? Wendy sometimes wondered if she actually wanted children, or if she
just wanted to keep up.

She wrote back:

New Guinea??? You definitely get around, my friend. Meanwhile, glad to hear things are going so well with the babies/ babysitter.
Call me when you get back to town and we’ll make a plan. Am happy to come to your place. Also, I may need the name of your
fertility doc. (The business of conception not happening on its own, alas.) Or maybe I should just steal one of your kids!
(Just kidding.) XW

For dinner that evening, Adam made Wendy a hamburger in the shape of a heart. Wendy thought it was cute—sort of.

To Wendy’s astonishment, a Valentine’s Day gift arrived from her mother as well—an IOU for a night at the St. Regis hotel.
The accompanying note read, “Dear Wendell. To make ends meet, my student and research assistant, Douglas Bondy, works as a
bellhop here. So if thanks are due, please direct them to him. Mom. p.s. Perhaps you were unaware that you were conceived
on the second floor??”

Wendy’s first reaction—after her initial shock that her mother had bought her a Valentine’s Day present—was irritation at
her mother’s over-crediting of Douglas Bondy. Her second reaction was horror at the reference to her own, sordid beginnings.
Also, what were her hairy hippie parents doing in the St. Regis? Upon further reflection, however, she was overcome by gratitude
for her mother’s generosity. What had gotten into her?

The snow began to fall on Friday evening. It fell all night. To Wendy, gazing out her bedroom window the next morning, Brooklyn
appeared to have been put to sleep under a giant down comforter. That, or Adam’s screenplay’s “high concept” had come true,
and New York had fallen victim to a surprise nuclear attack. The glimpses of jutting steel aside, the view was almost pastoral.
Even more disorientingly, the Prospect Expressway was quiet. Wendy considered canceling her trip to Daphne’s house and spending
the day hiding under the covers with a good book and pretending she was in Vermont. But she figured she might as well get
the visit over with.

By late morning, the snow had stopped and the sun had come out, but it was still cold and windy. Crossing Fourth Avenue, Wendy
felt as if she were being stabbed by hundreds of tiny daggers. At the same time, she found it invigorating to be outside,
braving the elements; to have her thoughts dominated by nothing more complicated than the desire to keep warm and to move
forward.

The R train, which was the only subway in close walking distance to Wendy’s apartment, didn’t stop anywhere near Daphne’s
new house. So Wendy got out at Court Street and trudged the rest of the way there through snow, ice, and sludge. Forty minutes
later, her feet drenched, she arrived at Amity Street between Clinton and Henry.

Genteel and secluded in feel, the block was lined with four-story brick and brownstone town houses in the Greek Revival and
Italianate styles. Before she left her own apartment, Wendy had written Daphne’s address on a scrap of paper and stuck it
in her coat pocket. As she struggled now to unfold the paper, her fingers numb, she thought of those prehistoric people whose
remains were occasionally discovered in remote tundras buried beneath three feet of ice, but with their flesh and even their
hair miraculously still attached to their bones. Finally, she managed to open the slip. The numbers had bled into one another.
But from what Wendy could decipher, she was already standing out front.

Daphne and Jonathan’s brownstone managed to be both charming and imposing. A high stoop with a decorative iron-work balustrade
led to a pair of carved wood double doors that had been painted a shiny shade of red. The doors were flanked by rectangular
pilasters etched with leaves. On the top step, a dwarf spruce fashioned like a smoke ring poked out of a gently oxidized stone
urn. In the tiny front garden, an old-fashioned streetlamp, looking like something out of Charles Dickens’s London, shot out
of the snow. Someone had already shoveled both the stoop and the bluestone walk-way that led to the lower entrance. On the
parlor-floor level, cast-iron guard railings that matched both the balustrade and the areaway fence that separated the house
from the sidewalk protected what appeared to be floor-to-ceiling windows. A work permit had been taped to the inside of the
window closest to the door.
It’s just a house,
Wendy reminded herself—
just a pile of bricks and beams
—as she climbed the stairs and buzzed a discreet bell tucked behind one of the pilasters.

Daphne came to the door in a bright pink velour hoodie and matching sweatpants, her feet ensconced in shearling slippers,
her hair pinned up with a rhinestone-studded butterfly clip. (Only Daphne could make tacky look cute.) “Wen—you are such a
HERO for coming out in this cold!” she declared. She threw her arms around Wendy. “I was sure you were going to cancel, and
I was already so bummed out about it.”

“Well, here I am,” said Wendy.

“God, you must be SO frozen.”

“It’s cold out there. I won’t lie to you.”

Daphne was always so friendly that it made it hard ever to be mad at her, Wendy was thinking as she followed Daphne through
a second set of antique doors and into a hallway illuminated by a brass chandelier. Wendy recalled the time in college when,
for once, she’d been the bigger mess of the two. Wendy’s first real boyfriend, a premed student from Mamaroneck named Evan,
had broken up with her without explanation. Daphne had plied her with drinks, told her that men were jerks, and proposed that
the two of them go to the movies “and forget about all [their] guy problems.” Daphne had been so sweet, so reassuring. Wendy
had felt so loved and protected. But an hour later, Daphne was suddenly putting on her coat and saying, “I totally forgot
I said I’d meet Josh. Are you going to be okay if I go out for a few hours? I promise I’ll be back soon.” (Face squinched
up.)

What could Wendy say? “I’ll be fine,” Wendy had told her. “You go have fun.”

At the rear end of the hall was a graceful curving staircase with a polished mahogany banister and a thick red runner; to
the left was a third set of double doors. “First, let me take your coat,” Daphne said, arms outstretched.

“Oh, thanks,” said Wendy, handing over her parka.

“Do you want sweatpants or anything?” Daphne asked while Wendy pried the first of two snow boots off her feet.

“I should be okay as long as I get these things off,” Wendy said, tugging at the second. Finally, both boots came off. She
set them down on a mat next to the interior doors, then made an admittedly exaggerated production out of shaking her feet,
frozen though they were.

“Poor you,” said Daphne, lips puffed out and down like a clown’s.

“That’s much better,” said Wendy, lapping up the mixture of pity and attention that Daphne was currently lavishing on her.

“You really are such a good friend for coming over in this weather.”

“Oh, please—let’s see the house!”

“Weeelllll…” Daphne ushered Wendy through the third set of doors and into the parlor.

It was the most gorgeous construction site that Wendy had ever seen. There was paper all over the floor, and paint cans, rollers,
and trays on top of that. But even unfinished, its plaster walls still covered with primer, the room—massive and sun speckled,
its fourteen-foot ceiling decorated with lacy plaster-work—was a masterpiece. Two white marble fireplace mantels with scalloped
edges and elaborately carved keystones jutted out of one wall. A humongous gilt mirror leaned against the other. A crystal
chandelier descended from a plaster medallion on the ceiling like a sprig of perfectly ripe grapes.

“So here’s our future living room!” Daphne announced brightly. “I was really hoping they’d be further along by now, but everyone
says renovations always cost twice as much and take twice as long as you planned. So what can you do?” She sighed and shrugged
at the same time, as if it wasn’t actually that big a deal. (As if she had both time and money to spare.) “Anyway. I think
we’re going to go with this weird color in the front parlor called ‘lobster bisque.’ Beige just seemed kind of ‘nineties.’
And white seemed too boring. And there was no way Jonathan was going to go for actual pink. Also, we’re getting this huge
Rug Company rug from Jonathan’s parents as a wedding present, and it has all these reds and oranges in it. So we needed something
to match that. Obviously, the trim is going to be white. But, seriously”—she turned to Wendy, her nose crinkled—“does bisque
sound really
fugly?
”

“First of all,” Wendy said, feeling in that moment that honesty was the best policy, “let me just say that this place is insane.
I mean, it’s like a museum! The fireplaces. The mirrors. The ceiling. It’s amazing.”

“I love this room, too.” Daphne smiled. “I just hope we’re happy here.”

“Why wouldn’t you be happy?” asked Wendy, who thought she saw a hint of doubt pass across Daphne’s face. But maybe she was
only imagining it, wishing it were true.…

“Oh, I don’t know.” Daphne slapped the air. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just nervous about the paint color!” She laughed. “But,
really, does bisque sound gross?”

Now it was Wendy’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know,” she said. In fact, the color did sound a little garish to her. “I guess
I’d have to see the shade. Do you have one of those color strips?”

“I think I have one upstairs,” said Daphne. “But first, come see the kitchen.” She took hold of Wendy’s forearm. “Or, I should
really say—the place where the kitchen might one day be!” She laughed again as she led Wendy to the back of the parlor, past
what would surely be the dining room. (Daphne would probably furnish it with some ten-foot-long quasi-rustic monastery table,
Wendy thought.) “Meanwhile, we’re thinking of going with wheat-colored taffeta drapes for these back windows,” Daphne continued.

“That could be nice,” said Wendy, whose toes were finally beginning to thaw.

Daphne directed Wendy into a newly Sheetrocked area to the right of the dining room, where four or five Central American men
were busy unloading what appeared to be a large wood-paneled refrigerator. “Hi, you guys!” Daphne lifted her hand at the men,
who smiled and laughed, seeming to find the sight of her and Wendy amusing, before returning to the business of refrigerator
installation. So far, only the island had been installed: a glossy white barge with elongated silver pulls and a white marble
top. “So, here’s the beginnings of the kitchen!” Daphne said, turning back to Wendy.

“Very sleek,” said Wendy, hating herself for recognizing the designer (likely Poggenpohl, she decided). She ran her hand across
the top of the island. It felt cold and smooth.

“To be honest, I was kind of reluctant at first to have the island put in,” said Daphne, “just because it looks so modern
compared to the rest of the house. But our architect said we needed more storage. I mean, that’s kind of the problem with
these old town houses. They’re so long and narrow that there really isn’t room for a dining room and a full kitchen on the
same floor. Anyway”—she shrugged—“I guess it’s nice to have somewhere you can grab a bite without having to sit all the way
down at the table. You know?”

“Right,” said Wendy, who didn’t see how sitting down at a table in a room that looked like the one at whose periphery she
stood constituted any kind of effort.

“Also, I love these drawers. They’re so quiet.” Daphne pulled out the drawer closest to her right hand, then pushed it back
in, an operation that was indeed silent and seamless. “Meanwhile, as you can see, the fridge has arrived. It’s supposed to
go over there.” She pointed at the far corner. “And the stove will go in the middle there, next to the sink”—again, she pointed
at an indistinct place on the opposite wall—“if it ever arrives.” She laughed warily. “Our architect ordered it from Italy.
Don’t ask me why. And don’t even get me started on the cabinets. They were supposed to be here, like, a month ago. Whatever.”
Daphne shook her head as she led Wendy back toward the main staircase. “Anyway, I want to show you the upstairs. We’re ‘staging,’
so we’re already living up there. Which is great, except we don’t have a kitchen right now. Which kind of sucks.”

“I’m sure,” said Wendy.

Just outside the parlor door, in view of the stairs, Daphne came to a sudden halt and indicated that Wendy should do the same.
“I’m sorry,” she said, teeth gritted apologetically as she grabbed hold of Wendy’s wrist with one hand and removed her slippers
with the other. “Do you mind terribly taking your socks off before we go upstairs? It’s just that, with all the construction
dust and everything—”

“It’s fine!” Wendy cut her off, taken aback not so much by Daphne’s request as by the half-guilty, half-panicked look on Daphne’s
face. It was a look that suggested to Wendy that Daphne thought Wendy belonged to such an inferior social caste that the concept
of tracking renovation detritus between floors of a brownstone was sure to be alien to her. Without further comment, she pulled
off her socks and stuffed them into her empty boots. But inside, she simmered.

Shame and anger turned to covetousness, however, as Wendy’s still-tender toes sank into the plush carpeting that lined the
stairs. The feeling only grew more intense after she followed Daphne into the master bedroom, which had its own carved marble
fireplace and had already been outfitted with a mahogany sleigh bed. For the picture before her was not just one of bricks
and beams, or even marble and mahogany, but of a refuge—less from the noise and chaos “out there” as from the noise and chaos
inside her own head that made her see both sides of every argument and wonder what she really believed and who she therefore
was. Rationally, Wendy knew that a home was defined by its people, not its furnishings. Yet a part of her wanted to believe
that if the sleigh beds were in place, the happy family would follow. (And that a higher thread count meant a hotter sex life.)
Marcia used to say that marriages were “hard work.” But Wendy had always suspected that there was a shortcut—that money (if
only she and Adam had money!) would do some of the backbreaking labor for them.