“Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm, right. But it’s still a mansion on the lake, and those aren’t cheap,”Tracey persists.
I begin to squirm a bit in my seat. Sometimes I wish Tracey would stop writing terse police dramas and go back to chick lit. She was a lot less intense back then. “You’d make one hell of an interrogator,” I observe.
“Uh-huh,” she agrees, not breaking her gaze.
“Fine, it’ll be a bit of a stretch financially, but we can do it, especially if we tackle some of the rehabbing ourselves. Plus, I’ll get a big check once I finish my work in progress, which, ugh, don’t remind me about right now. Anyway, if I get in a financial pinch, I can create a new book series, maybe for adults this time. Come on! It’s
Jake Ryan’s house
! You can’t put a price on that!” I exclaim.
“Except you can, because that’s the nature of real estate,” Tracey says.
“No, Mia’s right,” Kara agrees. “Ask any woman between age thirty to fifty and she’ll tell you that Jake Ryan was her ideal man. I mean, who wouldn’t fall in love with the hot guy who actually gave a shit about inner beauty? And when he showed up at Samantha Baker’s sister’s wedding in the Porsche? That’s every modern girl’s dream of the knight on the white horse. Did you know the
Washington Post
did a big article about his enduring legacy a while back? Twenty-five years later, women still want Jake Ryan to do filthy things to them. Fiiiillll-theee. I know; I read their e-mails.”
55
Tracey rakes her hand through her curls. “Honestly, I never saw the appeal. Too pale, too brooding. Not for me. Also, it bears repeating that a) Jake Ryan is fictional; ergo b) he never lived in that house, and c) you absolutely
can
put a price on that. In fact, I’ll wager that price was clearly marked on the MLS sheet.”
“Listen,” I say. “The bottom line is this: I have faith in fate and I take stock in signs.”
This is no exaggeration; I’m a firm believer in destiny. Maybe this is because I grew up listening to my right-off-the-boat Polish grandmother’s stories. The only time her fairy tales ended badly was when those involved ignored the signs. To this day, Babcia
56
Josefa swears that fate has already determined every nuance of our lives, and all we have to do is look for the hand of divine guidance.
Irina, my mother, grew up under this same philosophy, which she then manipulated to convince Babcia that it was the universe telling her to marry that Italian steelworker.
By “universe” what she really meant was “pregnancy test.”
They got married anyway, despite conflicting signs.
They’re divorced now.
Universe—1, Mom—0.
I continue. “Here’s the thing, Trace. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years obsessed with all things John Hughes. I mean, I want to live in the AC just to be in the environment that used to inspire him. So when Jake Ryan’s house practically falls into my lap—much like Samantha Baker’s ill-fated sex quiz fell in front of Jake in study hall—divine will is sending me a message and I can’t ignore it.”
“I’m curious. Is the universe telling you to take out million-dollar mortgages? Is the universe suggesting that you burn things? Does the universe send you secret messages about your neighbor through your dogs?”Tracey queries.
Kara and I both fold our arms in soundless solidarity.
“I’m simply saying that sometimes the universe is an asshole.” We continue to scowl. Or Kara does, anyway. Then Tracey shrugs her shoulders and picks up her menu with great resignation. “Fine. I’m not going to be able to convince you otherwise. So, I guess ... mazel tov and let me know how I can help.”
“Thank you,” I say, squeezing her hand. I go through the motions of reading the menu, but I’m pretty much having the exact same feta cheese plate with a side of chicken I’ve been ordering for the past four years.
57
But something still bothers me.
“Tracey, do you mean to tell me you really weren’t into Jake Ryan?”
She arranges her face in a moue of distaste. “Not so much.”
I think about that long and hard.
“Is it because he didn’t have an AARP card?”
“Do you love it? You love it, right? I already love it but
you
need to love it.”
Mac leisurely and deliberately takes in the view. “I’ve been here for fifteen seconds and I’ve only seen this one spot. We probably need to have dinner and go to a couple of movies before we decide if we want to take this relationship to the next level.”
We’re with Liz, standing in the gracious entry hall of Jake Ryan’s house.
Okay, maybe it’s not so gracious anymore.
Maybe it looks a bit like the lobby of a transient hotel, with all the weird black and white octagonal inlaid tiles and grimy windows. The only thing that’s missing is a Plexiglas cashier’s booth and a sign detailing hourly rates.
Every other time we’ve viewed a home, we’ve had to slip on the blue booties before embarking on the tour, but the pile of shoe covers has long been abandoned on the other side of the hall. I guess people walked in, saw the state of the floor, and decided that a little mud could only improve the situation.
“You have to use your imagination,” I assure him. “Don’t be like all those assholes on HGTV who won’t buy a house because of the wallpaper. It’s not load-bearing wallpaper, people! All you need is a steamer and some elbow grease! Please, Mac, just clean it all up in your head. Do a little mental mopping. I bet that’s why no one’s snapped this place up yet. They don’t have our kind of vision. You can’t let an ugly floor distract you from the vaulted ceiling. Picture a beautiful crimson Persian rug in the middle of this room and a nice round table that would be handy for mail and keys and stuff. We could do this up like a Four Seasons lobby, with giant sprays of fresh flowers. Gorgeous!”
“When you showed me the listing online, I couldn’t comprehend how this place could possibly be in our price range,” Mac muses. He touches a closet door and it immediately falls off its hinges. We all jump. “I have a better understanding now.”
We proceed to the left and enter a two-story ballroom. “A ballroom, for crying out loud! We could have balls!” I exclaim. Okay, fine, I may be giving him a bit of the hard sell. I can’t even envision what a ball might look like, but I maintain it would be nice to have the option. Most likely the only balls this room would see would be of the tennis variety, with Daisy and Duckie chasing after them.
Mac laughs. “Number one, that’s what she said, and number two, come see these picture windows in the dining room.”
“I do see them—and the view in front of them!” Majestic fir trees form a semicircle around the bay window. Beyond that, there’s a thicket so dense I can’t quite determine how deep the ravine is that runs behind the house. The seller’s Realtor says that after the ground dips down, it goes back up and the lake is just beyond it. Right now the whole area’s too snow covered (and lovely) to inspect firsthand.
“No, I want you to take a look right here.” I can’t help but turn around first to see where the glass table would have been in this room. Suddenly I have a craving for birthday cake and Thompson Twins music. Snapping me out of my reverie, Mac begins to point at various parts of the main window. “The seal’s broken on all of them. You can tell because of the condensation between the two panes. These are huge and custom and they’ll need to be replaced. That’s hundreds, if not thousands, right off the bat, and we’re only five feet into the house. Plus, these parquet floors? Their best days are behind them. Do you notice how worn and thin they are? They may be so far gone they can’t even be refinished.”
I’m not sure how to argue this, and then it comes to me. “We’ll ask for a buyer’s credit!”
“Ooh, no, sorry. Can’t do that,” Liz says, waving her MLS listing. “The trust that owns the house is selling it ‘as is.’ However, if you go under contract and the place inspects badly, you’d have the option of walking away without losing your earnest money.”
58
“I can’t imagine this place would inspect badly,” Mac notes, tapping the wall, which results in a small rain shower of plaster dust.
I decide my best bet is to distract Mac from the grotty floors and imperfect windows. I brush the powder off his shoulders and hustle him into the next room. “Check this out—a formal library!” We move into a room that’s covered in a rich mahogany paneling and lined with what seems like a hundred shelves. “I mean, think of what my book collection will look like in here!”
“Probably a lot like
Masterpiece Theatre
meets
Bridget Jones’s Diary
.”
“What does that mean?”
“You own ten thousand books and they’re all pink, paperback, and have shoes on the cover.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“No, I say that like they don’t require being displayed in a room where smoking jackets are appropriate. It would be like cutting butter with a chain saw, or hiring a chauffeur to drive the dogs to the beach.Yeah, you
could
do it, but why bother?”
“I disagree. An enormous paneled library is just what my books need to give them a bit of gravitas. And Daisy would love to go for a ride.”
59
Granted, my hilarious
Save a Buggy, Ride the Amish
framed print wouldn’t fit in so great here, but otherwise? Perfect!
As we pass from room to room, Mac remarks, “I don’t remember most of this in
Sixteen Candles
.”
Naturally Mac’s familiar with Hughes’s entire oeuvre, having taken a couple of film classes in college. The first time Mac referred to Hughes as “a brilliant filmmaker” during a group discussion, my ears perked up. As he rattled on about Hughes’s prowess in developing minor characters and punctuating poignant moments with the perfect song, I found myself wondering why I’d kept Mac in the Friend Zone for so long.
“Wouldn’t they have filmed the inside scenes on a set?” Liz asks.
“Actually, I believe the bulk of the interiors were filmed on-site. The producers rented out the house for the duration of filming. Most likely what we’re seeing is different because of renovations made postshooting.” Hey! Look at me and my fancy film knowledge! I’ve thus appointed myself the expert of All Things Hollywood as a result of my sporadic meetings with a handful of entry-level entertainment folks over the past few years. Once I had a sit-down with a film studio flunky who spent the whole time talking about his Facebook page. Sure am glad I paid for a full-fare ticket to LA to take
that
meeting.
I continue to dazzle the crowd with my insider information. “Remember the part in the movie where Dong and his date crash through the floor on the exercise bike? The owners actually had a huge hole in the ceiling because of a leak. John Hughes thought it was so funny that he wrote it into the script.”
Mac nods along with my monologue. “What you’re saying is that this house has a history of water damage.”
Oh! Hoisted with my own petard!
When we get to the kitchen, Mac marvels at the antiquated appliances. The bizarre—possibly sparking—track lighting in the bedroom causes him to scratch his head in disbelief, and the state of the laundry room makes him shudder. I didn’t realize you could stick linoleum floor tiles to the ceiling, either, but maybe that was the style back then?
“What do you think so far?” Liz probes.
“You already know my vote,” I say.
Mac’s a lot more skeptical, especially when the floorboard beneath him cracks. I try to cough really loudly to cover up the noise, garnering a knowing look from Mac. Busted. “Mia, I’ve counted nine different varieties of flooring and we haven’t even been to the basement yet. Every wall is made of a different material, no two windows are alike, and I’m pretty sure I saw daylight coming through the side of one of the closets. It’s like this place was an elaborate game of handyman Truth or Dare.”
“There’s so much space!” I insist. “And so many rooms!”
“We’ve passed six bathrooms so far,” he observes. “Each one of them has had a different color and style of toilet. I’ve seen black, white, mint green, powder blue, baby pink, and light purple—”
“Lilac. Technically that shade is lilac,” I inform him. What can I say? I watch a lot of
Color Splash
with David Bromstad.
“Who installs a
lilac toilet
? Prince? On top of that, functionally, not a single bathroom countertop hits higher than my inseam. Great if I’d like to wash my crotch, but I’d have to bend at a ninety-degree angle to brush my teeth. Who lived here? Circus folk? Carnies? Plus, we are only two people. We don’t need six toilets. Let’s face facts, Mia—this house is a disaster. We’d have to call it Apocalypse House.”
“You wanted a fixer-upper,” I protest.
Mac tries to break the news as gently as he can.“This house would be a journey into the heart of darkness of home renovation. What we have here isn’t a fixer-upper so much as it is a tearer-downer.”
“Please do me a favor and don’t rule it out until you’ve seen the whole thing,” I beg.
“You’re the boss,” he says with more than a little resignation, following me down the too-steep stairs.