Chapter 10
After Jinny puts the application in, we wait.
When a week goes by and we haven’t heard anything, I start to think that we never will.
This was a stupid idea. We’re clearly not suitable tenants for a place like the Glendale.
But then, on the following Tuesday, we receive an invitation to attend an interview.
I’m beyond excited, even though Sam cautions me that this is far from a done deal.
They might not like us, and even if they do, there are other considerations.
We still have no idea how much the apartment will cost, and even with financial assistance, it could still be out of reach.
But Jinny is optimistic. She tells us that the odds are good. If the Glendale’s board didn’t like us, they wouldn’t waste their time on an interview. Even so, I’m nervous as we drive across town the next day and meet her outside the building.
It’s an imposing six-floor structure with a sandstone facade, arched windows on the second floor, and colonnades supporting a decorative plinth.
The building would not be out of place in a European city like Paris or Rome, which only makes me more nervous.
Will the board that runs this place really let us live here?
Being turned down based on the application is one thing, but to lose this opportunity after we meet with them and see the apartment would be so disappointing.
Jinny isn’t fazed, though. She leads us up a set of granite steps to the front door and presses the buzzer to let the doorman know we’ve arrived.
After a brief conversation, the door unlocks.
But Jinny won’t be joining us. She has another appointment a couple of blocks away and will meet us when we’re done.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “You’ve got this. ” Then she departs.
“Ready?” I ask Sam nervously.
“As I’ll ever be.” He takes my hand, pushes the door open, and we step into the Glendale.
The inside of the building is dripping in prewar opulence.
A floor of inlaid marble tiles reflects the light from a huge chandelier hanging down from a vaulted ceiling that rises through the second floor.
English oak wainscoting adorns the walls.
A dark-wood staircase with posts topped by frosted glass lamps winds around a central birdcage elevator.
To our right is a door that leads into a small mailroom with gold-colored boxes built into one wall.
To our left is the doorman’s desk, and beyond that, an office.
A plush red couch sits against the wall near the desk.
The doorman motions to it and asks us to wait, then makes a phone call.
Ten minutes later, we’re escorted along a corridor behind the staircase and into a reception room, where the board members are waiting.
And what I see takes my breath away. A huge fireplace with an impressive brownstone mantel occupies one wall.
Floor-to-ceiling bookcases wrap around the walls, their shelves packed with antique volumes.
A pair of arched windows spill dappled sunlight across a dark oak floor.
A pair of chandeliers, smaller facsimiles of the one in the entrance lobby, hang from a coffered ceiling.
Two men and a woman sit in wingback chairs arranged around a low coffee table.
They face a couple of empty chairs, clearly placed there for us.
After we take our seats, the woman speaks. “My name is Catherine Cole. I’m the great-granddaughter of the man who built the Glendale.” She nods toward an older gentleman with thick white hair and a beard sitting to her right. “This is my husband, Ronald.”
He raises a hand in greeting but remains silent.
Motioning to the other man, Catherine says, “This is Dr. Andrew Burgess.”
Dr. Burgess is younger than his counterparts by at least a couple of decades. He has wavy blond hair, brown eyes, and the enviable good looks most doctors seem to possess.
“So, what do you think so far?” he asks, with a faint smile that somehow feels hollow.
I take in my surroundings, overawed. “This place is fantastic.”
“I’m pleased that you like it. I’ve been here since the building was first turned into a co-op, and I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”
“I can see why,” I say, my eyes roving across the shelves packed with books. “It’s like I’m inside some Gilded Age mansion. It’s just . . . wow.”
Catherine beams with pride. “We feel this room is a suitable introduction to the grandeur of the building. The couple who built the Glendale, John and Kathy Putnam, were huge supporters of the arts, including literature. John even ran a publishing house for a while, although his other ventures did better. They had this library installed to provide somewhere for the residents to sit and reflect . . . to find a measure of peace from the bustle of the city beyond these walls. It’s an unusual feature, but one that we’re proud of at the Glendale. ”
“I would be, too,” I say, in a hushed tone. It feels wrong to raise my voice too loudly here, even though no one is trying to read.
Catherine nods knowingly, as if she understands.
“There was also a telegraph office and gymnasium on this floor, and two reception chambers, a dining room, and a sauna on the second floor. They even had plans for a ballroom at one point. It was luxury living back then, for sure, which was how John envisioned it. Of course, most of that is long gone, converted into apartments.”
“Except for the library,” says the doctor. “We couldn’t bear to part with that.”
I look around, imagining myself living here and relaxing in this room on a cold winter’s evening with a fire roaring in the grand fireplace while I work on my laptop. It’s hard not feel a twinge of excitement, and we haven’t even seen the apartment yet.