Chapter 8
It has been five days since I first saw the house.
Every day since, I’ve talked myself out of coming back here.
It would’ve obviously been too risky. How many more times could I possibly explain away bumping into Jack out of sheer coincidence?
But I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
It’s like a middle-school crush. All I’ve wanted to do is study every inch of this place and imagine what it’ll be like when it’s mine.
Now I finally get my chance.
Someone has planted the window boxes since last week—they explode orange and violet and fuchsia.
I follow Ian’s stare up to a plump cardinal singing from the big maple in the front left corner of the yard.
He was silent the whole car ride here. “You’re sure you still wanna go through with this?
” he asked when we woke up this morning.
But I can feel him mellowing as he absorbs this scene, dreamy and golden in the faded early-evening sun.
We make our way up to the stoop, where I give the brass door knocker a couple raps. Jack’s muffled voice floats through from somewhere on the other side—“Penny, they’re here!”—then small footsteps patter down that gorgeous wide-plank floor.
Here we go. The beginning of the rest of our lives.
The door is flung open. “Hi, Margo!”
“Hi, Penny! Oh my gosh, your dress is so cool.” It has navy blue and white stripes on top, with a navy tulle skirt.
“Thank you! Your shirt is my favorite color.”
“Pink?”
She makes a confused face. “No. Coral.”
This kid is such a trip. Jack comes up behind her, looking like a movie star in meticulously pressed chinos and a lightweight cream sweater.
“Hey, guys,” he says. “You must be Ian.”
If Ian’s still nervous, he doesn’t let on. “Great to meet you, man,” he says, grabbing hold of Jack’s hand, then passing him the bottle of prosecco I picked up earlier. “I hear you and Curt have a lot to toast these days.”
Jack thanks him, then turns to hug me. I hand him the plate of oatmeal cookies I spent the afternoon baking. “I know you said not to bring anything, but these freeze beautifully so you can have them anytime.”
“I’m making out like a bandit here,” Jack says. Ian and I both laugh, maybe a touch too hard. “Well, come on in. Curt’s this way.”
And just like that, I’m inside the house.
My senses feel reborn—like they were dead before this and now they’re alive and starving for every last detail.
It smells expensive in here. Leather mixed with some type of fancy candle.
Sandalwood maybe? A flush-mount fixture, tasteful and classic, illuminates the foyer, its milky shade turning the light gauzy and soft.
The handrail of the staircase that leads to the second floor is stained ebony, the curve of it so polished that it could be liquid.
I have to find a way to get up there.
Before we follow Jack through the archway into the kitchen, I size up the living room, off to the left.
It has a fireplace where I expected it to be, with a Carrara marble surround that matches the kitchen countertops.
They’ve laid it out just the way I imagined—it’s like the house has been talking to me—with a pair of sofas facing each other in front of the hearth.
To the right, behind a set of glass doors, I spy a more casual den with a plush-looking sectional.
Floor-to-ceiling built-ins full of books flank a wall-mounted flat-screen.
I can’t think of anything I’d do differently.
These rooms announce the second you walk in that their owners are classy and smart and stylish.
It would be impossible not to be happy here.
“There they are!” Curt, shirt sleeves rolled up under a chambray apron, stands in front of the range—which, I can now confirm, is indeed a Thermador.
“Margo, wonderful to see you again.” He wipes his hands on the front of the apron before extending one across the island: “And you must be Ian.” A wooden board, two feet long, is heaped with charcuterie and cheeses.
“What are we drinking?” Curt asks. “I have a pitcher of gin martinis ready to go, or if you’re wine people, we also have some very nice Sancerre chilling in the fridge.”
“I would love a martini,” I say. “This is such an impressive spread. And your house! My God, it’s impeccable.”
“Oh, well, it doesn’t always look quite this perfect,” Jack chimes in. “Your timing couldn’t have been better. We just had the place shot today, for the listing. I was chasing the photographer around until a couple hours ago.”
My stomach drops. It’s not a shock, of course, that they’d take pictures to sell the home. But the thought of these immaculate rooms on display for the greedy hordes floods me with panic.
Ian clears his throat.
“How exciting!” I say, powering through. “When are you putting it on the market?”
“Two weeks from tomorrow. I still can’t believe it,” says Jack. “Feels like yesterday Penny was in a booster seat at that island.”
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks.
“Well, I’m sure people will be lining up for it,” I say calmly. “It’s stunning.”
“Yeah, this market is absolutely bonkers,” Curt says as he pours Ian a martini. “Our agent told us a couple weeks ago that someone was already sniffing around about it. I mean, how would they even know? Can you believe that?”
Ian and I both shake our heads, martini glasses pressed to our mouths.
“But we don’t need to tell you how ridiculous the market has gotten, do we?” Curt continues. “I hear you’ve been through quite the house-hunting ordeal yourselves.”
My breath catches. I’m not ready to go there yet—we haven’t even made it past the appetizers.
“Daddy?” Penny interrupts. “Can I please have some Manchego on a date crisp?”
I exhale.
“Sure, sweetie.” Jack gets to work assembling the cracker.
“Gosh, what a sophisticated palate you have,” I say, seizing on the change of subject.
“We went to Barcelona last year for spring break and I ate a lot of Manchego there,” says Penny.
Everyone laughs. That’s exactly the kind of thing I want my kid to be able to say one day.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have an old soul?” Ian asks Penny.
“Papa says I’m mature for my age because I’m around a lot of adults.”
Curt chuckles. “It’s true, I do say that. We’ve always let Penny come to our dinner parties and spend time with our friends. I really don’t understand why more parents don’t do it that way.”
“Oh, Penny, that reminds me, I brought something for you. But maybe you’re too grown-up to want it?” I tease.
She giggles. “I don’t think I’m too grown-up.”
I fetch the surprise from my purse. I wisely chose an “adult” coloring book with much more intricate drawings of London landmarks than your typical kids’ fare.
“Thought you could do this on the plane ride over.”
Her tiny round face stretches into a smile as she flips through it. “Thanks, Margo. I love it.”
Her dads are glowing.
“Have you been to London before?” I ask her.
“Once, but I was too little to remember. I have some pictures of it in my room, though. Do you want to see?”
A ticket to the second floor.
“That sounds like fun,” I say, turning to Jack and Curt. “If you guys wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all, go right ahead,” says Jack. “In fact, why don’t we all go? I’ll give you a tour.”
Hell yes.
“I’ll stay and get the salmon ready to put in,” says Curt, “but here, let me top you off before you head up.”
He comes around the island with the martini pitcher. I hold my hand over my glass: “I’m a lightweight,” I say, smiling, attuned to the subtle fizziness already spreading through my limbs. I need to stay sharp.
The rest of us follow Jack back to the front of the house, where he points out the den. “Those built-ins were one of the first things we had done when we moved in,” he says. “And this is the more formal living space over here.”
“I love the fireplace,” I say. “Is it wood-burning?”
“Yeah, it’s original from 1948.” He leans over to adjust a knit throw draped over the back of the sofa closest to us. “It’s one of my favorite parts of the house, especially around the holidays. We put the tree right over there, in that corner by the window.”
I lock eyes with Ian. He has to be thinking the same thing—this is meant to be.
The first time I met his parents was over Christmas, the year we started dating.
I’d never been serious enough with a boyfriend to spend the holidays together, so I was a nervous wreck trying to figure out what to pack, what types of gifts would come across as thoughtful but not trying too hard.
His dad picked us up at the airport. I let him and Ian catch up in front while I rode in back, silently coaching myself on the things I might say when we got to the house—Your home is lovely! Thank you so much for having me!
When we pulled up, I felt like I’d landed inside the Hallmark Channel.
It was creamy brick, like the outside of this house, with red-bowed wreaths in each window, and ivy climbing up one side.
It’s not that it was anything ostentatious—Indiana real estate is obviously a lot cheaper than here.
Before they retired, Ian’s mom taught high-school English and his dad was a pharmacist. But it just looked so …
what’s the right word? Solid. Like it was built to last. The polar opposite of the vulgar, vinyl-clad McMansion that my parents opted for in a new-money (or, in our case, imaginary-money) subdivision.
Ian’s mom and his sister Brooke took turns enveloping me in long hugs. “We’ve all been dying to meet you!” his mom said. She took the shopping bag full of gifts off my hands, and showed me over to the tree—past the fireplace, in a corner of the living room, right by a window.
Exactly the same way we’ll do it here.