Two of a Kind (6 page)

“Oh, right.” Jordan was the one who cut her food into teeny, tiny pieces, pushed it around on her plate, and called it eating.

“I'm interviewing Christina about a job,” his father explained.

“A job?” What could this woman possibly do that his father would want?

“I'm planning to redecorate the apartment.”

“Redecorate?” said Oliver. “Why? Everything looks okay around here. Everything looks
fine
.” Oliver's head felt like it had come loose from his body and was floating somewhere up in the vicinity of the ceiling. He needed to sit down, and lowered himself onto his father's beige and cream tweed sofa, where he perched, tensely, at its edge; if you got, like, even one little spot on that sofa, Andy would pitch a fit. Was this one of the things in need of redecoration? Oliver could totally get down with that but not with anything else.

“Oliver, you're being rude,” his father said. “What's the matter with you?”

“He doesn't want the home where his mother lived to be changed,” said Christina.

“You get that?” Oliver was surprised. He would have guessed she'd say just the opposite.

“Of course. My husband died a number of years ago. For a long time, I wouldn't change anything in our house. I kept thinking that if he came back, he'd want things to be just the way he'd left them.”

“Then you thought that too?” Oliver couldn't believe she was saying these words; this was
exactly
the way he felt about his mom.

“Thought what?” his father asked. Oliver ignored him.

“That the person who died is not really dead. That she's coming back, and it's your job to preserve everything so that she'll be able to find her way home,” said Christina.

“That's it!” Oliver burst out, not caring how stoned he sounded. Christina Connelly was all right.

“What are you two talking about?” Andy seemed genuinely confused, and at another moment, Oliver might have relished this, but right now he was too busy looking at Christina.

“The dead,” she replied. “And the way they won't move on.” She turned to Oliver. “I just want you to know that if your father decides to hire me, it won't be my goal to eradicate your mother's presence from the apartment. It will be to honor it.”

Oliver looked at her, seeing, as if for the first time, the way her hair—light brown and very smooth—was swept off her face, the tiny earrings that pierced her lobes, the kind of retro summer dress she wore, which was not drab at all, but instead way cool, with a pattern of little birds all over it. “Sweet,” he said, his face splitting into a wide, goofy grin. “Sweet.”

Oliver trailed Christina and his dad to the door and waited while they said good-bye. Then he started to go back down the hall to his own room, but before he could make his escape, he heard his father's voice. “Could I see you about something?”
Yeah, whatever,
he was about to reply. But then he turned and went still; no words came out. There, dangling between his father's two tightly pinched fingers, was his missing bag of weed.

C
hristi
na studied the house—a double-wide brick on Third Street—before mounting the steps. The bricks were pale, almost apricot, and both longer and narrower than the standard issue in the neighborhood. They were beautiful, even historic bricks. But they needed work.

If she got this job—and it was a big if—she would recommend repointing immediately. She would also address the other signs of neglect, like the big urn by the door, empty save for some weeds, that was peeling in long, curling strips, and the ancient metal trash cans—who even had metal cans anymore?—that were painfully battered.

It's a huge job,
Mimi Farnsworth had told her. But a huge job was just what Christina needed, and she was grateful that Mimi had recommended her.
I feel like I owe you, Christina,
she said.
Seriously.
But Mimi's recommendation, while helpful, was not a guarantee. Christina still had to meet the owners, a wealthy hedge fund manager and his wife, and convince them to hire her.

Years ago, it was common to see these once-grand houses sink into ruin. Their owners had fled in the frenzy of white flight, and the architectural carcasses left behind had been carved up into apartments or single-room occupancies. Drug deals went down on corners that Christina knew enough to avoid when she was growing up here. There were bands of tough kids, angry, testosterone-juiced boys looking for an excuse to commit some petty crime. The girls who circled them were equally scary, with their thick eyeliner and thicker accents. Some of them went to the parochial school where Christina had been a favorite of the nuns; she knew they resented her exalted position and she kept her distance.

But things in Park Slope had changed. New money from Manhattan poured in, houses were bought, renovated, their prices shooting up along with their restored facades and fresh coats of plaster. If their house on Carroll Street had been worth what it was worth today, Christina's father would have sold it immediately and relocated to “the Island,” as he called it; he had never gotten over his longing for the suburban dream of a freestanding dwelling, golf-course green lawn out front and patio with a grill out back.

The front windows of the Third Street house were open and Christina could hear voices coming from inside. “Stop!” said a woman. “I said no jumping on the sofa!” There was the sound of giggling and then a yelp. “Okay, that's it! Time-out for both of you!” Christina waited a minute before she rang the bell. “Coming!” called the same woman's voice. “Coming, coming, coming!” The door was pulled open and there stood Phoebe Haverstick, the woman who had recently inherited this derelict house. “Sorry for making you wait.”

“Not a problem,” said Christina. There were no signs of the children she'd just heard.

“Anyway, please come in. The place is a mess.” Phoebe used a well-muscled forearm to brush the hair from her face. She was a sturdy, athletic-looking sort, with tanned, powerful limbs revealed by her gray shorts and white tank top.

“Yes, you'd said your great-aunt hadn't touched it in what—forty years?”

“Make that fifty,” said Phoebe. “Can I get you something?”

“Nothing for now,” said Christina. She followed Phoebe past the foyer into the parlor. There, she actually gasped. The entire room—walls, ceiling, furniture, carpeting, even the baby grand piano that stood at the far end—had been painted or upholstered in the same celestial shade of blue. “Please, sit down.” Phoebe gestured to a Louis XVI sofa covered in shredding pale blue silk. Christina hesitated but then saw that all the furniture in the room—the matching Louis XVI chairs, blue velvet settee—was in an equally deteriorated condition, and so she perched carefully on the sofa's edge.

“She certainly had a point of view,” Christina began.

“Did she ever! Wait until you see the rest of the place.” Phoebe had flopped down on the velvet love seat, drawing her strong legs—she'd played field hockey in school, no doubt about it—under her.

“How long did she live here?” Christina let her eyes travel the room. No paintings, but a large mirror in a sky blue frame hung above the sky blue mantelpiece, and several smaller mirrors were dispersed on other walls.

“Her parents bought the house in 1915—she was about five years old. She lived here her whole life. Never married, never moved.”

Christina reached into her bag and pulled out a black Moleskine notebook. “I'll want to see the whole thing, of course. But I want to hear more about you first—what your goals for the house are. How you envision it changing and growing along with your family. Then I can tell you about how I might help you.” As if the word
family
were the prompt, there was a thud and then a shriek, both emanating from somewhere above.

Phoebe leapt up and sprinted toward the sound. Christina followed more slowly, climbing the center staircase that was covered, of course, in balding sky blue carpeting.

Upstairs, the monochromatic motif continued, but now in a pale, buttery color. In one of the golden rooms, Phoebe introduced Christina to her two daughters; the seven-year-old, Torry, was the namesake of Great-aunt Victoria. Once the girls were safely parked in front of Phoebe's laptop, Phoebe showed Christina the upper two floors, one done in lilac and the top one in pink.

When they were through, they went back down to the blue floor again. Christina had a brief, irrational desire to tell Phoebe to leave all of it, every last stained and shredded scrap, intact. But of course she would not say such a thing, and anyway, how ridiculously impractical would that be? Phoebe needed a more family-friendly kind of space; she had two daughters—
and a third on the way
, she had said confidingly, patting the front of her shirt. Christina had not realized she was pregnant, but now she saw it, the barely perceptible bulge. The woman was so taut and solid it was easy to miss.

Back in the parlor, Christina asked more questions, took notes, and began formulating a plan. She wanted to maintain these light colors, but give them a more relaxed, contemporary spin. The moldings, pocket doors, and the like—those hard-to-replicate details that made these old houses so prized—she would recommend keeping, though she envisioned low-slung, informal furniture, bright rugs, and natural wood.

Phoebe listened intently, and spent a long time looking through the book of photos Christina had brought. Finally, Christina got up to leave.

“I'll be in touch,” Phoebe said as they walked to the door. “And I do like your ideas for the nursery. A sweet, safe little space where I can bond with the baby.”

“An oasis,” said Christina, extending her hand. “A home within a home.”

“Exactly!” Phoebe took her hand and shook it vigorously. She had a grip like a python and Christina resisted the impulse to massage her own hand until she was on the street and safely out of her sight. When she turned the corner onto Carroll Street, she noticed a man with a turban standing in front of what she judged to be her house. At his side stood a woman and a child. Both wore scarlet saris; Christina assumed they were mother and daughter. And yes, they were all standing directly in front of her house. Why? But before she could ask, they saw her and, appearing startled, retreated. The man ushered the woman and child into a black Mercedes that had been double-parked by the curb, and the driver took off, driving much too quickly down the street. She did not see the plates on the car, only two heads—hers sleek and dark, his swathed in its nimbus of white—as the car sped away.

The sound of a door opening attracted her attention and she turned to see one of her next-door neighbors, Charlotte Bickford, standing on the stoop with a sour expression on her face. Had she noticed the Indian family too? But Christina would not ask; she thought Charlotte—who never cleaned up after her wretched little dog and whose loud, drunken shouting matches with her husband were often audible—was a detestable person and she kept her distance.

Christina wondered about the Indians as she let herself inside. Yes, Park Slope had become a much more moneyed enclave in recent years. Still, this block and certainly her house were hardly the most outstanding examples of what the neighborhood had to offer. Why were those people looking at it? And why had they sped off when they saw her? They had seemed almost . . . guilty. But of what?

T
he sun was just coming up as Christina drove across the Brooklyn Bridge the following Saturday. There was scarcely any traffic and the white Saab sped merrily along, its windows rolled down to admit the breeze. The illuminated green numbers on the dashboard read 5:26; she'd be at Andy Stern's apartment by 6:15. She slid a CD—
South Pacific
—into the car's player and sang the words to “Happy Talk” right out loud along with the recording. She'd never,
ever
sing if anyone else was in earshot, but the warm June morning, with its pink-gold sky and fleecy clouds, was hers alone and she could indulge. Besides, she was in a good mood. Mimi had called to say Phoebe Haverstick had really liked her vision for the house and, while the job was not yet hers, she was in serious contention. And surprisingly, the job with Andy Stern had not been nearly as bad as she had anticipated.

She was over the bridge in a matter of minutes, and followed the signs for the FDR Drive. Now she could see the East River on her right, its rippling surface turned dull pewter in the morning light. Andy's apartment had views of this river, and he did love them; appalling as Christina found the building, she found they seduced her too.

The FDR was as scantily trafficked as the bridge, and she decided to get off at the Sixty-first Street exit, park the car—an urban miracle—and duck into a café on First Avenue. She bought a latte and a scone; she enjoyed both while sitting in the parked Saab across from Andy's building on East Sixty-ninth Street. She would have bought Andy a latte and a scone too, but she'd already been exposed to his tedious views on eating and didn't think he'd permit himself either.

At exactly six fifteen, he emerged from the building's doorway. He wore pressed khakis and one of those shirts with an alligator appliqué sewn on the front of it. The shirt was more revealing than the usual button-downs and blazers she'd seen him wearing and she had to admit that he was certainly in great shape, very lean and muscled. Slung across a shoulder was a backpack with the linked initials
RL
stitched all over its surface. Did he wear
anything
that didn't double as an advertising platform? Well, yes—the logoless baseball cap that was on his head.

“You're right on time,” Andy said as he opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. The backpack came off and was stowed by his feet.

“There wasn't any traffic,” she said.

“You'd have been on time even if there had been traffic.” His approval was evident.

Christina just smiled. They were on their way to an estate sale in Dutchess County that had sounded promising; she'd mentioned to Andy that she was planning to go and he'd surprised her by asking if he could tag along. She was looking for a mirror, a coffee table, and the small chest of drawers she'd envisioned to replace his current nightstand. His apartment had been decorated by a notable downtown firm and was quite austere, with lots of sharp angles and sleek surfaces; the color scheme was confined to a muted palette of gray, ivory, taupe, and black. Christina could recognize the intelligence of the design and appreciate the care with which it had been executed, but it left her cold. Andy said he had loved the decor at first, less so now. “When Rachel was alive, she seemed to give the place personality,” he said. “But now that she's not . . .” He said he wanted more of everything: more color, more pattern, more texture.

“So you think we can get there by nine?” he was saying now, strapping the seat belt across his chest. He consulted his watch—he did this constantly—a bulbous, complicated thing crammed with tiny dials that indicated the time not only all over the world but most likely on several nearby planets as well.

“Depends on the traffic,” Christina said.

He nodded, still looking at the watch. Then he looked up. “Have you eaten?”

She nodded. “But if you're hungry, we could stop along the way.”

“No, I come prepared,” he said, and reached into the backpack to produce a power bar that was identical to the ones Jordan seemed to think were an essential food group. “We can split it if you like.”

“No, thanks,” Christina said. She'd tried one of those bars—never again.

“Twenty grams of protein in here,” Andy said, opening the foil wrapper. “And seven grams of fiber.”

Christina tried to keep her face a blank; why would anyone eat something that tasted so awful, protein and fiber notwithstanding? She concentrated on getting back onto the FDR, and then onto Harlem River Drive. Traffic slowed for a while; an accident up ahead turned the stream of cars into a trickle. But things opened up again and soon they were on I-95, heading north. She glanced over at Andy. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be dozing; the empty power bar wrapper was in his lap. She was relieved, actually, not to have to make small talk with him. He could be bossy and brusque and she'd had to contend with his pen-tapping-wristwatch-checking brand of impatience. But he was also willing to consider her suggestions with an open mind, and was refreshingly decisive, a rarity among clients. In the three or so weeks since she'd been working for him, he had selected all the paint colors, decided on a very expensive new rug for the living room, and approved her purchase of a new lamp, as well as a cunning little movable bar that was designed to look like an old steamer trunk.

She glanced out the side window. I-95 was so boring—the occasional rest stop, endless signs for McDonald's, Wendy's, and their kin—and she wished she could have turned on
South Pacific
again. But it seemed rude to wake Andy, and though she had headphones buried somewhere in the car, there was no way she could dig them out now. So she drove in silence, plotting her course at the sale. Caryn Braider needed a sofa and an armoire; she was also looking for a wrought iron chandelier and a folding screen—if she could find such a thing. Then there was the Haverstick house, but Christina wasn't going to buy a thing for that; it might jinx her chances of getting the job. She was able to keep these running lists in her mind, though in the backseat, alongside her ample tote bag, was a three-ring binder with all this information and more—dimension requirements, color and material preferences, price ranges, fabric swatches, and paint chips. Inside the tote itself were a flashlight, rope, rubber gloves, sunblock, a baseball cap, a plastic rain poncho, and a bottle of water—she came prepared. Even her outfit—worn chinos, white T-shirt, Keds—was utilitarian rather than fashionable. Her only nod to self-adornment today was the handwoven belt she'd bought on a trip to Mexico some years ago and her silver bangle.

Andy woke up just as they were pulling up to the house. He pressed his hands to his face. “I must have conked out.”

“You slept almost all the way up here,” Christina said. The dashboard clock said eight fifty; the sale started at nine. There were already cars parked and waiting; a couple of them had New York plates.

“I performed an emergency C-section last night,” Andy explained. “I didn't get to bed until three o'clock.”

“Three o'clock!” said Christina. “You should have told me—I would have understood if you needed to cancel.”

“That's all right,” Andy said. “I was looking forward to driving up here with you. It's a nice change of pace.”

Christina grabbed her bag and binder and got out of the car. Then she and Andy walked across the lawn toward the house, which was set back behind a low and serpentine stone wall. She loved walls like this, each stone selected and set in by hand, the whole thing kept together by the dynamic tension of the parts. A house with a wall like this had promise, and her heart started its eager, anticipatory thrumming as they got closer.

This was the best part of her work—the hunt, and the sifting through the accumulated possessions of the dead, their precious lives both revealed and defined by what they had chosen to keep. In a way, she hated to carve it all up, the books and bibelots, the rugs, the furniture, the collections of candlesticks and teacups, thimbles and botanical prints. But she couldn't buy it all, much as she sometimes wanted to. No, the accretion of these particular objects was over now; their story had ended. It was time for these things to return to the stream again, ready to be scooped up and made part of someone else's life.

“Hey, wait for me,” Andy said as he came up behind her.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to get ahead.”

“You were practically jogging,” he said.

“I just get excited, that's all.” She was at the house now, taking her place beside the other people waiting there. Just then the door opened and a frosted blonde with pale pink lipstick greeted them.

“Welcome, folks,” she said. “Most everything is marked; if it's not, just come and see me. There's stuff in all the downstairs rooms. Second floor too, though not the rooms with the red tape
X
s on the doors; the stuff in there has been claimed by the family or sold already.” She had the eager air of a den mother about to release her charges into the wild. “Happy hunting!”

She stepped aside; the small group entered and quickly dispersed. Christina immediately went upstairs; if there was an armoire, it was likely to be up there. Andy trailed behind, but she barely noticed him; she had caught the scent and was not easily distracted. She made a quick tour of the rooms on the second floor. No armoire, but a big mirror shaped like a sunburst sat on the floor, propped against a wall. It was a gaudy thing, probably from the 1960s, but was also kind of wonderful in its way. And it might work very well in Andy's place.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It's a little over the top,” he said, kneeling down for a better look. “But I kind of like it.”

“So do I.” She checked the price: two hundred dollars.

“Seems reasonable,” Andy said.

“It is. But I can get it for less.”

His eyebrows moved up. “Really?”

“Really.” Christina left Andy standing watch while she went to find the woman with the frosted hair. After a few minutes of polite but firm negotiation, Christina had gotten the price down to one hundred and seventy dollars. A red
SOLD
sign was taped to the mirror.

“Hey, you're good,” Andy said as he followed her into the next room. “
Very
good, in fact.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I have plenty of experience.”

There was nothing else of interest upstairs, but downstairs, in the sunroom, Christina found an ottoman in mahogany leather that Andy loved and a box stuffed with vintage tablecloths, napkins, runners, dresser scarves, and doilies. Many were yellowed or stained, but she could bleach and restore them. She didn't have an immediate use for these linens; still, they were of too high a quality to pass up. Some of the runners had handmade lace trim and the jacquard weave of the napkins was exceptionally fine. She bought the whole batch for twenty-eight dollars. The dining room yielded an assortment of crystal glasses and goblets for any drink imaginable: champagne, wine, port, sherry, sidecar, and old-fashioned. And because they were odd pieces, they were only a dollar each.

“You have to get these,” Christina said to Andy, guarding the table where the glasses were grouped. “We can use some of them up in the bar we bought.”

“I have plenty of glasses,” he said.

She lowered her voice. “These are Baccarat. And they're
old
. They'll be perfect in that bar.”

“How do you know that they're Baccarat?”

“Trust me,” she said. “I know.” Counting thirty-three pieces, she offered the woman with the frosted hair twenty-five dollars for the whole lot and then stood wrapping each one in a sheet of newspaper—some dating from the 1970s—because she did not trust anyone else to do it. When she was done, there were smears of newsprint on her white T-shirt and her hands were grimy.

Once the glasses were safely packed, Christina continued her hunt. Yes, there was a sofa, with pretty curving legs and down cushions, but Caryn wanted something more modern and she herself had nowhere to put it—her showroom was packed—so she reluctantly let it go. She did buy several unframed needlepoints that she would turn into pillows, as well as another small oval mirror in a simple cherry frame, a battered watering can, and a star-shaped nail cup—used, she told Andy, by cobblers to hold their various-sized fasteners. “How do you
know
this stuff?” Andy said as she picked it up to test the heft of it. Sometimes weight alone decided her; she hated anything that felt too flimsy or cheap.

“On-the-job training,” she said. The nail cup felt agreeably heavy in her hands; she would buy it.

“What are you going to do with it anyway? You can't have too many clients who are cobblers.”

“Once it's been cleaned up, it will make an excellent serving piece—see all these little compartments? They're perfect for setting out different foods. You can put olives in one, roasted peppers in another, nuts in another.” Christina loved this kind of repurposing; it involved a certain slant of mind to take something intended for one use and put that thing to an entirely different one.

It was close to noon by the time they emerged from the house; by this time, the sky had grayed a bit and in the distance, a bank of clouds lay low on the horizon. It had gotten warmer too; Christina felt a fine sheen of sweat coating her face and arms. Andy helped her put all their purchases into the car. “I'm starved,” he said. “Do you have time to stop for something to eat?”

“I know a diner not too far from here,” she said. “They serve the best coconut custard pie; they make it right there.” As soon as she said it, she realized that Andy wasn't about to eat a piece of pie. It was like being with Jordan. Still, she was hungry and needed some food before getting on the road again. Andy Stern could order what he wanted;
she
was having pie for dessert.