Chapter 9 Arthur Buy My First House #2
“People are always looking at us and assuming. Assuming we don’t know anything about wine or culture or travel.”
“We don’t know about any of those things.”
“That’s the worst part! That they’re actually right. We don’t know anything, because we haven’t lived. Not really.”
“Well, we don’t come from old money,” he said, feeling defensive.
His parents had been somewhat well-off, but never anything close to this, and they’d earned it all themselves.
Which is what he wanted to do, too, even though they’d offered on many occasions to make things easier on him.
“So we’re young and broke, earning our way up. ”
He wasn’t sure he even really believed that. Wren certainly didn’t. “We’re not that young.”
Arthur knew what she meant. He wasn’t ever embarrassed about being thrifty, but sometimes he was embarrassed that they’d had to be.
It was particularly bad going out with Tristan and Charlie, who seemed to have more money than they even knew what to do with.
Tristan had once invited Arthur golfing with him and his buddies, as a gesture to score points with Charlie.
But Arthur didn’t have the right clothes, the right shoes, the right kind of sunglasses and hat.
People kept assuming he worked there and handing him dirty balls to exchange for new ones, asking him to fetch them a fresh drink.
It was miserable. On the plus side, he made a lot of good tips that day.
He and Wren had bickered about it before.
Because he was always the one saying no.
No to Ubering when he was happy to DD, no to a celebratory dinner when he was more than happy to cook, no to expensive new bedding when the ’s Choice brand had good reviews and was basically the same thing.
It was exhausting, the back-and-forth, all the little decisions.
And he hated always being the stick-in-the-mud, the bad guy, but he was doing it specifically for this very moment in their lives.
Because he knew what they’d be up against when they struck out on their own as a proper family, and he wanted to be as prepared as possible.
“So can we just pretend, for now? And get through this without humiliating ourselves?” she asked. “It feels goddamn amazing when people think you’re rich.”
“But owning a home is on my bucket list. You said we had to try, and I can pretend to be Dr. Peterson, but I can’t pretend to pull three million dollars out of my ass.”
“OK,” Wren said, wheels turning in her head. “We’ll find a way to let her down easy. Take a quick look, then tell her we think it’s too big for us after all, and could she maybe show us something a little more modest. Yeah?”
Why couldn’t they just come clean, tell this woman the truth?
But as he thought about it, played the scenario out in his mind, he realized Wren was right.
It would be absolutely humiliating. Like forgetting your wallet at a restaurant and having to wash dishes in the back as penance, while the sneering manager looked on, and all the other happy couples on anniversary dates watched as you were walked to the back like a scolded child.
If such a thing ever actually happened in real life.
It would be the look on the woman’s face as she processed the information.
How he would be able to see her opinion of them fall instantly, their value plummeting.
Arthur hated lying, but he was pretty sure that would feel worse.
“Coming?” the agent called out, swinging open the ten-foot-tall door.
All right. He could take a vacation from being the no guy just this once. He could be Dr. Peterson for one afternoon.
The tour began in the grand foyer, which featured ceilings that touched the sky, the aforementioned chandelier, and an ornate curved stairway leading to the upper levels.
But Arthur couldn’t stop staring at the marble-tiled floor.
Not a scuff to be found on it. It was brilliantly shiny, maybe more so than their bathroom mirror at home, which always seemed vaguely foggy no matter how many times he cleaned it.
“So when are you due, if you don’t mind me asking?” the Realtor chirped. Linda Kellerman was her name (and according to the pin on her blazer, Getting You a Great Deal was her game).
“September third,” Wren said.
“So soon! You two must be eager to find the right fit, then.”
He noticed that Linda was removing her shoes. It was one of those homes, apparently. He and Wren did the same.
“Absolutely,” Wren said. “I can’t wait to raise his babies while he’s off making a difference in the world. It’s been a dream of mine since I was little.”
“Well, I think you’re going to love this place. Come on, let’s see the kitchen and you can tell me a little about what it is you’re looking for.”
The walk there was lengthy. Even in his socks now, Arthur stepped lightly on the flawless hardwoods. A stray bit of debris clinging to his foot, or so much as a toenail poking out, could lead to a scratch, and this flooring was more valuable than his entire net worth.
As they walked, Wren peppered Linda with absurd questions: “Now, does the house come with a service staff or will we need to hire our own? How big is the wine cellar? Is there a number I can call if someone yucky is walking around outside and I don’t like the looks of them?”
Linda fielded them like a pro, then: “Dr. Peterson, what about you? What is it that gets you excited about your potential new home?”
He took the opportunity to speak honestly: “It’s not so much features and looks that I really care about, but the feel of a place.
I’m hoping we can find a neighborhood with plenty of young families with kids, good schools, friendly neighbors.
Someplace that can feel like home.” They reached the kitchen, finally, and found it was surprisingly modest, in both size and features.
A simple white quartz countertop, a sink, plenty of open storage.
It was the kind of kitchen he could see their family in, believe it or not, if it was detached from this monstrosity of a mansion and placed in a more normal dwelling.
He could visualize the entire thing and it gave him hope and optimism for the first time that day.
He could visualize it all: him clumsily chopping fruits into bite-size pieces on a cutting board, Wren trying to corral the baby into its high chair, both of them tired and disheveled and laughing, deeply joyful, sneaking kisses while the baby threw messy handfuls of raspberries all over the floor.
“Quite the butler’s pantry, isn’t it?” Linda said.
“I’m sorry, the what?” Arthur said.
“Butler’s pantry. For food prep and storage.”
“So this isn’t the kitchen.”
Linda laughed. “Of course not. That’s through here.
” She pushed through a swinging door and they were off into the kitchen proper, the butler’s pantry’s big brother.
It had the same aesthetic but was three times as large, outrageously spacious and grand.
Arthur could envision Martha Stewart preparing a Thanksgiving feast in here.
And the Peterson-Morris family was not invited.
“What do you think?” Linda asked.
Arthur looked to Wren, who was waving her hand under the automatic touchless faucet, turning it on as if by pure magic, watching it shut off, and doing it again.
“You know, Linda, seeing it in person, I think it might be a little too much house for us,” Arthur said, feeling it was time to bring the charade to an end. “We’re just two people, with one little tiny one on the way. In other words, we probably don’t need the two swimming pools.”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded. Arthur could see the look, the disappointment as she began to suspect they weren’t the high rollers she initially thought. An urgent care doctor, perhaps, instead of private practice.
“But the place is beautiful,” he quickly added. “A slightly smaller version would probably be exactly what we’re looking for.”
There had been some value in this visit, at least. There were bits and pieces of this place that spoke to him.
The area, just maybe a part of it that was outside the confines of the golf course.
The quiet roads with kids riding bikes; he’d seen them on the way in and couldn’t help but smile at the memories it brought back of his own childhood.
“Well, hold on,” Wren interjected. “It is a little cookie-cutter, don’t you think? I mean, white much?” She gestured around the kitchen, at the white countertops, white backsplash, and white farmhouse sink. “I think we’d be open to something with a little more personality.”
Linda jotted down notes. Taking the feedback to heart even though this was all a farce. Even still, Arthur didn’t want her to get the wrong idea about what they wanted.
“But school district is important to us, too. And being around other families like us. We don’t want to be out in the middle of nowhere, or in the city.”
“Who says we don’t want to be in the city?” Wren said, now pulling out a cabinet drawer and giving it a little push, watching it glide back into place.
“Well, it’s just that we’d have more space in the suburbs, but still be close by.”
“Ah, right, and we can become obsessed with every blade of our meticulously manicured lawn.”
“If it gives the kids some green space to run around, why not?”
“Kids can run around in the city. I did,” Wren spat out, suddenly defensive. “And I didn’t go to the ‘best schools’ and I turned out OK.”
“It’s a lot safer out here,” he said, instantly regretting it. He knew how defensive Wren got about Baltimore’s “reputation,” fueled heavily by Fox News and people rewatching The Wire, as if there were a shotgun-toting drug dealer lurking around every corner.
“Is that what you think?”
“Come on, Wren.” He lowered his voice, speaking only to her. “The city’s got its problems, OK? This is just about giving our kid a nice place to grow up.” Then he dropped to a whisper. “This is all make-believe anyway, so what does it matter?”