“Oh, I’ll take the credit, or the blame, as the case may be. I’m an interior designer myself.”
That explained why this house felt so lived-in, and well-lived-in, and it was a gracious response that managed to blend a bit of self-deprecation with justifiable pride.
She continued, “I was an art director for a while and then I thought, Why am I putting all this time and energy into creating fake spaces that will be torn down when the show wraps, instead of projects that are more permanent? The hours were ridiculous. It was such a relief to quit and focus on my own house.”
Jane nodded. “I worked in entertainment for a while, too. Everything and everyone is disposable.”
Leila fixed Jane with a penetrating gaze. Was Jane being too revealing? She squirmed and was relieved when Leila gave her a warm smile.
“Very true. So, the part of the house I could really use some help with is out back.”
They followed Leila through an Italian garden with a gurgling fountain at the center of a tiled pond populated by koi, then past a large swimming pool rendered an alluring azure by pigmented plaster. On the far side of the pool stood a low-slung pool house that echoed the style of the main house with its thick plastered walls and terracotta roof tiles.
“Before we go inside—to be honest, I wasn’t sure I needed to hire people to help—but I’ve been putting it off forever. I need to be forced to deal with the mess.”
“We’re here to help,” Jane reassured her.
“I have three kids, the youngest just started college, so empty nest. A lot of their junk—sports equipment, school projects, etcetera—ends up in here.” Leila looked away for a moment. “My husband died a few years ago; there might still be some of his stuff here.”
Gently, Lindsey said, “Oh I am so, so sorry.”
“Me too,” was all that Jane could think to add.
“Yes, it was unexpected, but you know, time heals.... Anyway, why don’t you both look around.”
“Perfect,” Jane replied.
As she turned to leave, Lelia glanced back at Jane. “That’s such a pretty scarf. I own an Hermès scarf I’ve had since my junior year of college in Paris. They never ever go out of style.”
Jane blushed. There were almost too many things to like about Leila!
The pool house consisted of a generously sized guest bedroom, abutted by a large bathroom stocked with striped towels, matching robes, and bathing suits neatly hung on a row of hooks. The bedroom, however, had become a dumping ground. Cartons of books and papers and sports equipment were piled high in a large closet, and more boxes, neatly stacked, sat out in the open.
It was a minor mess and Jane understood why this would unnerve Leila. Perfectionism was a double-edged sword: if only the side that fostered dedication and achievement could be separated from the other side, which harbored the inevitable feelings that nothing would ever be good enough. Jane wanted to reassure Leila, “Your problem area isn’t all that problematic!” Maybe she should make this her own mantra.
Sorting through the boxes, it became obvious this was ahousehold of achievers. The schoolbooks, carefully highlighted and annotated, evidenced lots of Advanced Placement coursework and bore the name of the toniest private school in the city.
Jane had been a straight-A student in high school—well, except for that one nasty ninth grade math teacher who gave her a B-plus. At the time, her English class was assignedThe Scarlet Letter,and she began thinking of the B-plus as her own personal Scarlet Letter.
Why,whyhad she cared so much? These days, she could look back with insight and understand that these good grades were objective markers that demonstrated her worth. Her father would compliment her on her report card even though her mother never seemed terribly impressed. Perhaps she thought Jane was showing off a bit; maybe it was rubbing salt into the open, suppurating wound of coping with her severely disabled, cognitively impaired son.
Lindsey was now rummaging through the unruly tangle of sports equipment—tennis rackets, lacrosse sticks, golf clubs, skis, snowboards, something that might be water polo head gear. She swung a tennis racket and sighed. “I wish I could play tennis. I’m not very good at sports.”
“Yeah. Same.” Jane was studying a snowboard, wondering when it had last been used.
“Jane, are you okay? You seem a little... tired maybe?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep great last night.”
“Okay, well, if you don’t want to talk...”
“No, it’s—I’m trying to concentrate. Sorry.”
They sorted for two hours, working at a rapid clip, while Lindsey careened from complaints about how her school was really hard—“Why do I need to understand math to be a counselor?”—to mooning over her new love interest, a guy who worked at Trader Joe’s and was always especially eager to give her samples. “He’s super flirty but he hasn’t asked me out, so I’ll have to take that first step. God, I hate having to do it, but men are so lame about that stuff. You are so lucky you had that wingwoman to hook you up with Teddy.”
Jane brightened. “You know what? Bring me to your Trader Joe’s sometime and I’ll see if I can break the ice.”
Lindsey flushed.
