The Makeover (7 page)

TWELVE

“You actually said ‘Mark my words?’ Damn, I can’t believe I missed it!” Henry proclaimed, as he navigated the Manhattan traffic en route to the Lincoln Tunnel.

Camellia sat beside him in the rented Range Rover, beaming over both her performance and Henry’s enthusiastic approval. “You should have seen his face,” she mused. “If he could have pushed his way through the steel wall of that elevator, he would have.”

Henry patted her hand. “You always did know how to make an exit.”

The plan was to take Interstate 80 across Pennsylvania and Ohio, then head north on 75 to reach their destination in Michigan. It would take about fourteen hours, including stops for food and to stretch their legs. The moving van was scheduled to arrive the following morning. Henry had picked up an air mattress and packed pillows and blankets so they could get a few hours of sleep before unpacking began.

The journey was more fun than Camellia had expected. She hadn’t been on a road trip since she went with her parents to the Poconos for a long weekend camping trip the day after graduating from high school. It was their idea of a graduation present: cramped sleeping in a too-small tent with fishing and hiking the daily activities. It was her worst nightmare, complete with swarms of mosquitoes and a mild case of poison ivy. For Camellia, it was proof positive her parents didn’t understand her at all.

Now with Henry, the mood was light, in a luxurious vehicle with old ‘80s songs on the satellite radio, and a venti cappuccino in her hands. Snow covered the Pennsylvania mountains, but the roads were clear, making the drive as beautiful as it was peaceful.

They stopped for a late dinner north of Pittsburgh at a charming café with lace curtains and a stocked pie rack. Camellia ordered a big leafy salad so she wouldn’t feel too guilty about the slice of key lime pie she was eyeing.

“We’re not going to get in until around four in the morning, so you might want to nap once we’re back in the car,” Henry suggested, pouring a pitcher of gravy over an oversized pile of homemade mashed potatoes. Camellia shook her head. “You don’t want to sleep?” he asked.

“No, I don’t understand how you can eat like that and never gain a pound,” she muttered, stabbing at a spinach leaf.

“Good genes,” he replied, lifting a forkful of potatoes to his mouth. “Can you imagine, with my ability to stay slim and your ability to always look fabulous, how gorgeous our baby will be?”

“Oh Henry, are you pregnant?” Camellia questioned. “You won’t be skinny for long.”

“Come on, you have to admit, we’ve got some good DNA between us.”

Camellia set down her fork and crossed her arms. “You don’t think for one minute, now that you got me out of New York, that I’m going to transform into your little stay-at-home baby-making machine, do you?”

“Of course not. But damn, Camellia, we’ve been married for eight years. Isn’t it about time?”

She sighed. It wasn’t that she didn’t like babies, or that she was completely opposed to the idea. They probably would have beautiful children. And Henry would make a wonderful father, she had no doubt. But when it came to picturing herself as a mother, Camellia got cold feet. Her own mother had been devoted to her and yet had zero idea who Camellia was – not then or now. How would she do with her own child? And then there was the issue of her career, or more appropriate, her need to build a new career. Now that she was back at the bottom again, with a looming climb in front of her, how would a child figure into her plans to fight her way back to the top? And once she was traveling to fashion weeks and fundraising galas again, who would look after the baby? Henry’s job would be keeping him busy, leaving their baby in the care of a nanny. How would she feel about someone else raising her child? She couldn’t help but feel paralyzed by the thought of fitting a baby into her world.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” she finally said. Henry flashed her a look that made her realize her husband no longer believed her when it came to this subject. “I promise,” she reaffirmed. “I really will think about it.”

Camellia pushed the leafy salad about her plate with her fork, her chest heavy as her mind pushed
around a lingering thought she couldn’t shake.

“What is it?” Henry’s eyes were concerned.

She set down her fork and put her hands in her lap. Her eyes were downcast. “Henry, why do you put up with me?”

“Because I love you,” Henry replied without missing a beat.

Camellia looked up at him. “That’s a little simplistic, don’t you think? I’m a workaholic who spends money like water and expects everyone to do what I want, including you. I’ve set aside your requests to start a family again and again and again.” Her expression was pained, her eyebrows knit tight. “How can anyone love a person like that?”

Henry wiped his mouth on his napkin and folded his arms on the table. His expression, surprisingly, was one of amusement. “If you’re asking me if you drive me crazy, the answer is a resounding yes.”

Camellia’s mouth dropped open at her husband’s frankness. “Henry, I–“

“Let me finish,” he interrupted.

Camellia fell silent, her eyes once again staring into her lap.

“You are a strong, fiercely independent woman who knows what she wants. I knew that from the moment I met you. That’s exciting. Challenging, too. Compromise isn’t easy with you.” Camellia crossed her arms as Henry continued. “Over the years you’ve had to build a tough shell around you to protect you from the negativity that comes from having such a high-level, highly public job. I get that. However, at some point, you stopped remembering that you don’t need that shell protecting you from your personal life. But none of this changes my love for you. You’re the one I’ve always wanted, Camellia. You may drive me crazy, but there’s no one I’d rather have doing it.”

“I’ve been a real shithead,” she said as two tears slid down her cheeks. She brushed them away while blinking back the brigade still threatening to fall. “Henry.” She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, as if preparing to leap from a cliff. “I have to tell you something that I did. Or almost did.”

“What is it?”

She grabbed her napkin and held it at her face, hiding the majority of it from sight. “I was going to fire an emotionally unstable girl who had been doing a good job to make a point.” Her breath hitched as the memory resurfaced. The tears flowed. “It would have been the absolute lowest thing I had ever done. And I was practically reveling in it.”

“But you said ‘almost did.’”

“Yeah. Funny enough, Tray fired me first.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I understand protecting myself, but I don’t know how I became this person.” Camellia dabbed at her face then set down the napkin, revealing blotchy skin and puffy eyes. “I don’t like me.”

“Well you can’t de-shithead yourself overnight,” Henry said, picking up a leftover menu from the table, a smile playing on his lips, “so don’t worry too much. You’ll find yourself again. Now how about that dessert?”

Two hearty slices of pie and two steaming cups of coffee later, they were back on the road. Though Camellia didn’t think she would be able to sleep, she drifted off easily, the sound of the tires on the road like a one-note lullaby. She woke to dim light coming in through the tinted windows, surprised to find it was already early morning. Hitting the lever to raise the seat back, she turned to Henry, who was winding his way along a two-lane road that was flanked by massive fir trees. “Are you okay?”

“Tired,” Henry said, his hands tight on the wheel.

She looked at the little clock on the dash. It was just after five a.m. “Have you been driving all night?”

“I took a little break just after crossing the Michigan border. Stopped for a coffee and some snacks at a truck stop.”

“Oh honey,” she said, reaching over to rub Henry’s neck. “I’m sorry I slept so long.”

“It’s okay. You’re in charge of telling the movers where to put everything, so you’re going to need to be thinking straight.”

He made a sharp turn onto a quiet road with little wooden houses spread far apart, surrounded by large plots of land. “Where are we?” Camellia asked, running a hand through her hair.

“We’re here.” Henry made a right into a gravel driveway, reminiscent of the one at his parent’s place. But the little wooden structure overshadowed by giant trees that was aglow from the SUV’s headlights was a far cry from Carl and Lena’s quaint getaway. 

“This isn’t a house, it’s barely a cottage,” Camellia said, alarmed. “Please tell me this is a mistake.”

“Don’t worry,” Henry said, already out of the car, shaking out his legs. “It’s rather cute. And I’m sure it’s great inside.” He walked up to the door and bent down to pull a
set of keys out from under the welcome mat.

“People really do that here?” she scoffed, as Henry dangled the keys at her.

“Come on, let’s go in,” he called out.

“It’s five o’clock in the morning, keep your voice down,” she reprimanded, trudging up the path to the door.

“I don’t think anyone could hear me if I screamed,” he said, motioning around at the lack of neighbors.

“That’s comforting,” she mumbled, stepping past the screen door Henry was holding open. She felt for the light to the right of the door and flicked it on. Her Valentino handbag fell to the linoleum floor.

In front of her were the main rooms of the house: a living room, kitchen, and dining area, and they were already furnished. The living room featured a matching oversized sofa and chair in country blue and tiny white flowers, with the same blue used for the carpet and valences. A wooden coat rack, floor lamp, and an old TV pushed into the corner all surrounded what appeared to be the room’s centerpiece – a wood-burning stove with an ugly pipe that traveled up and out the wall behind it. 

The dining area had the same carpet and valences, with a black rectangular table and six simple round-back chairs. A large pendant light hung over the table about ten feet in the air, dangling from the pitched ceiling.

The kitchen was very small, with a refrigerator and stove at one end, a peninsula with two barstools at the other end, and a counter with a sink and cabinets above and below connecting both ends. A little microwave sat on the counter. There was no dishwasher. The wall over the stove was decorated with ducks and fish and a
square clock.

All three rooms were painted the same salmon color and had stained oak trim around the windows and up the narrow stairway to what Camellia assumed were the bedrooms. She hadn’t yet seen a bathroom, and was concerned it could be located outside.

“This can’t be the right house,” she said, still hopeful Henry had gotten the address wrong.

“I’m afraid it is.” Henry set the keys on
a ledge beside the door. “Come on, let’s see where we’re going to be sleeping.” They climbed the stairs to find a single, cramped bedroom, just large enough to fit a double bed, two narrow nightstands, and a little wooden dresser. The bedspread was a patchwork quilt with bears, leaves, and cabins surrounded by a border of diamond-shape patches in a palette of beige, brown, and hunter green. “It’s a back-country bedroom,” Henry said, his voice too tired to be sarcastic.

Off the bedroom was the only bathroom, one of the more roomy areas of the house, with toilet, sink, a free-standing vanity with built-in mirror, and a shower stall. “Oh my God, there’s no tub,” Camellia realized.

“There’s probably a rain barrel in the yard you can soak in.”

“Henry, that’s not funny. We can’t live here.”

“We’re going to have to, for a little while.” He squeezed past Camellia to get from the bathroom back to the top of the stairs. “I’ll grab our bags. For now, we need to get some sleep. The movers will be here in a few hours.”

“They won’t have much to do, will they?” she muttered, going back into the bedroom and flinging herself on the bed. The old mattress springs bounced her up and down, squeaking as they went. “Oh good God.”

Henry reappeared with their overnight bags in hand, which he tucked on either side of the dresser. He stripped down to his boxers, dug in his bag for his toiletries kit, and trudged into the bathroom. “We have water,” he announced, the thunderous sound of the groaning pipes that carried the water to the second floor
negating explanation.

Sliding into bed, Henry kissed his wife on the cheek and turned back to extinguish the ceramic lamp on his nightstand. Within minutes, he was snoring. Camellia, however, was unable to sleep. The long nap in the SUV mixed with the surreal surroundings of this ramshackle cottage kept her eyes peeled open, her mind whirling with alternative housing options. They could easily tuck the keys back under the doormat and check into a nearby hotel. At least they would have a bed that didn’t sound like it was rescued from her great-grandmother’s attic, and a restaurant where she could have her meals when she didn’t feel like ordering room service. She could also hire a real estate agent first thing in the morning, and find the type of well-appointed home on the water she had anticipated. Better yet, they could do both – move to a hotel in the morning and be out scouting properties by afternoon. With a plan of action settled on, Camellia finally drifted into slumber, only to be awakened three hours later by a pounding on the front door. The movers had arrived.