Chapter 11
The interview goes well. At least I think it does. At the end, they inform us that they still have three more applicants to interview. Then Catherine offers to show us the apartment, which feels like a tease, given that we don’t yet know if we’ll be allowed to live there.
I’ve already decided, based on the common areas alone, that should we be offered the place, it’s a resounding yes. The building is a dream, and the terms are so reasonable that we actually could afford it.
The Glendale has four apartments on each level, except for the second floor, which has two because the lobby rises up through it, and the ground floor, which has only one.
The top floor is a penthouse occupied by Catherine and her husband, Ron.
The apartment we’re looking at is on the fourth floor, taking up a quarter of the space on one corner of the building.
We ride up in the antique birdcage elevator, which makes me feel like I’ve fallen back in time to an era of flappers and gangsters.
When we arrive at the fourth floor, I’m no less enamored.
The landing is full of vintage charm, with brass sconces topped by milk glass shades that cast a warm glow, a smaller version of the chandelier in the lobby hanging from the ceiling, and a black-and-white-tile patterned floor.
But what really draws my eye is the painting hanging between the apartment doors opposite the elevator.
It’s an impressionist-style street scene with a building I recognize instantly.
“Is that the Glendale?” I ask.
Catherine nods. “Yes. My great-grandfather visited Paris several times in the 1890s and fell in love with the art there. According to family lore, he met édouard Manet at the Folies-Bergère and asked him to paint this from a photograph he took with him.”
“It’s not signed,” I say.
“Manet also died in 1883,” Sam says dryly. “Which means this can’t be his work.”
A faint look of displeasure crosses Catherine’s face. “You are correct.”
Sam shuffles his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense taken. The problem with family stories is that the details have a habit of becoming less distinct over the years.” Catherine walks us to a door opposite the painting. “Shall we proceed?”
Sam nods, shooting me a pained glance as Catherine unlocks the door.
We step inside, and I’m surprised to see that, in contrast to the old-world charm of the common areas, the apartment is bright and modern.
We enter through a square foyer illuminated by concealed lighting.
Two huge oil paintings—swirling explosions of color that dazzle the senses—hang on opposite walls in slim aluminum frames.
They’re so large that they practically stretch from floor to ceiling.
More concealed lights shine down on them.
The floors are light wood planks with a distressed finish.
A thick orange-and-black wool rug with a swirling pattern that complements the wall art fills the center of the room.
“The paintings come with the apartment,” Catherine says. “It’s part of our commitment to my great-grandfather’s mission to support the arts. They’re on loan from the family’s private collection. Unless you prefer to install your own pieces, in which case I can have them removed.”
“They’re beautiful,” I say, wondering what Catherine and the other board members would think of the cheap Van Gogh prints we purchased from HomeGoods when we moved into our previous apartment. It was the best I could do at the time, given our limited funds. “And I love the floors.”
“Me too,” Sam agrees. “They offset the modern renovation beautifully.”
“Thank you. They’re original. We deliberately kept them this way to showcase the building’s character.
” Catherine leads us into a living room with a stacked stone fireplace flanked by built-in shelves.
This room has more light wood floors, and one of the biggest brown leather couches I’ve ever seen.
There’s a glass-and-metal coffee table—nothing like our old IKEA one—and two side chairs that match the couch.
A huge TV hangs over the fireplace mantel.
Despite the size of the furniture, everything fits comfortably into the space.
I feel like I’ve walked into the pages of an interior design magazine.
A huge quartz island dominates the space between the living room and a gorgeous kitchen that even I would want to prepare meals in . . . And I loathe cooking. The fridge is an enormous, gleaming stainless steel monster. Another smaller fridge is built into the island, which has racks for wine.
After stepping back out of the kitchen, Catherine leads us across the living room and into a dining area with an oblong table and eight chairs.
The wall to our left is taken up by a built-in hutch with shelves behind glass doors on the top, and four rows of drawers on the bottom.
Like the floors, it looks original to the apartment.
I can almost see the fine bone china and silverware of days gone by displayed in this hutch.
Catherine steers us through the room and past the hutch to a set of sliding doors.
“I think you’ll love this,” she says, parting the doors and ushering us onto a wide balcony with stunning views of the Back Bay and the city skyline beyond. “Well? What do you think?”
“I love it,” I say, turning to Sam. “Isn’t this fantastic?”
“It sure is,” Sam replies, but there’s an edge to his voice. A cautionary note. He casts me a quick look that drums home the message. Don’t get too attached. We don’t have the place yet.
But I can’t help it. I am attached, even though I know we aren’t the only applicants, and we stand a good chance of being turned down, regardless of our tour guide’s upbeat, friendly demeanor.
We go back inside, where Catherine leads us to the left and into another room, which is empty.
“This is the guest bedroom,” she says. “But it would also make a great office or even a meditation area.”
An office, I think to myself. I can finally have a real office.
Then, as if Catherine is saving the best for last, we find ourselves in the main bedroom, which puts our previous digs to shame. There’s a king-size bed, and another TV mounted on the wall. An en suite bathroom boasts a glass shower cubicle with four heads, and a soaking tub.
“The entire building was renovated ten years ago, before we converted it to a cooperative,” Catherine says. “We spared no expense, as you can see.”
I almost wish she hadn’t shown us the apartment, because now that I’ve seen it, I’ll be heartbroken if we aren’t approved. It’s so much more than we could ever have imagined to be within our reach.
Sam leans close to me and whispers, “Just keep in mind, it won’t look anywhere near as good with our furniture in it.”
Somehow, Catherine hears him, even though she’s on her way back out of the bathroom.
She turns to us. “Actually, the previous owners left the furniture behind. They didn’t want the expense of moving it all the way across the country, so whoever we approve for the apartment will have the choice of keeping it. ”
“Really?” I step back into the bedroom and look at the bed, resist the urge to flop down on it and see if it’s as comfortable as it looks. “All this stuff?”
“All of it,” Catherine says in a chirpy voice. “Unless the new tenant doesn’t want it.”
“It’s great,” I say quickly. “We’ll keep it . . . I mean, if we’re approved, that is.”
“Excellent.” Catherine smiles and claps her hands together. “I believe that concludes the grand tour.”
We follow her back through the apartment and ride the elevator down to the lobby, where Jinny is waiting and chatting to the doorman.
I don’t want to leave. I’m falling in love with this place despite my best efforts not to get excited.
Catherine bids us farewell and says that we’ll be informed of the board’s decision soon.
Once we’re out on the sidewalk, Jinny turns to us. “Well? What did you think?”
I look up at the building, and the balcony of the apartment on the fourth floor. I imagine myself standing up there and gazing out over the city on a balmy summer evening. Only two words can do this place justice. “It’s perfect.”
We hear back from the board of the Glendale a week later.
During that time, I’m on tenterhooks, unable to think of anything else, even though Sam tells me repeatedly not to get my hopes up.
There were other applicants, and they probably don’t have credit issues like we do.
But then Jinny calls with the news. We’re in.
The board has approved our application. All that’s left to do is sign the paperwork, which will happen at noon on Friday, just a few short days away.
I want to pinch myself, make sure this is real.
But it is. After everything we’ve gone through over the last few years—the miscarriage, my struggling business, the loan falling through, and finally the robbery that’s left me shaken to the core—our luck is turning around. We’ve done it. The apartment is ours!