The Makeover (8 page)

Henry wasn’t budging from his deep sleep, so she slithered out of bed, still fully dressed from the drive, and stumbled downstairs, opening the door to bright light and two burly moving men standing in the front yard smoking cigarettes.

“We have a bit of a problem,” she called out, shielding her eyes from the sun that was reflecting off the snow. “Place is furnished and it’s way too small to hold our things. Everything needs to go into storage.”

One of the guys with a blue bandana tied around his head nodded and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the street. Camellia shook her head and closed the door on them, heading into the kitchen to look for a phone book. She found it in the cupboard under the sink, damp with curling pages. Disgusted, she placed the thin book on the counter and flipped through the Yellow Pages to the entries for storage units. There was one listing for a place called U Store Stuff. She realized she had absolutely no idea where it was in relation to the cottage. In fact, she had no idea what city the cottage was in. “Where the hell am I?” she wondered aloud. She climbed the stairs again and burst into the bedroom. “Henry, what city is this?”

Henry rolled over, his groaning mostly drowned out by the rattling mattress springs. He sat up and looked around, his expression dazed. “Are the movers here?”

“Yes, and we need a storage unit fast. I have no idea where we are to judge the distance of the storage facility.”

“Markleeville,” he said, yawning and scratching at his back.

“Seriously?” Camellia questioned, glaring at him. “You moved me to a place called Markleeville?” She laughed out loud. “That’s just fabulous.” She plodded back down the stairs to call the storage unit. “Fab-u-lous!” she cried, her shrill voice ringing through the tiny house.

U Store Stuff was only two miles away. Henry and Camellia got back into the Range Rover and led the way, the moving truck laboring behind. To get to the storage unit, Henry had to drive north along Beech Street through downtown Markleeville, a sleepy town with a storybook quality, especially covered in a layer of snow. The sidewalks were empty of pedestrians, and only a handful of cars were parallel parked along the main thoroughfare. The buildings held a hodgepodge of services, with a post office, pharmacy, hardware store, and real estate office anchoring the ends of the diminutive downtown. Interspersed were a toy store, candy store, ice cream parlor, bakery, bait shop, bookstore, frame shop
, and a narrow business offering backyard décor. There was a barbershop and salon sitting side-by-side, with a pizzeria and a diner bookending them. On opposite sides of the street were two women’s boutiques. From the looks of their front windows, they were sharing an inventory of crew-neck sweaters and tapered trousers.

Just up the road, a car wash, animal hospital, and church were clustered together, as if they had seceded from the downtown. From there to the storage unit, they passed two more churches, a party store, a run-down motel, a hidden campground, two trailer parks, a seasonal farmers market, a boat and kayak rental company, a cemetery, and an equipment rental business. The intersection of Beech and Mitchell, where the storage unit was located, was also the site of the US-127 on- and off-ramp; a busier area with a Save-a-Lot, Dollar General, gas station/Taco Bell combo, movie theater, Econo Lodge, and fast-food row of McDonalds, Burger King, and Arby’s.

Camellia was speechless.

At the storage unit, she and Henry sorted through boxes, their fingertips turning white from the cold as they searched for clothing, kitchen supplies, and any other easy-to-grab comforts from home to take back to the cottage. Everything else went into neat towers in the ten-by-twenty-five-foot unit. Henry signed papers with both the movers and the storage facility manager, and then locked the unit, adding the key to the rental car keychain that also held the
cottage key.

“Want to get some coffee?” Henry asked, unzipping his jacket once he was back in the car.

“Absolutely,” Camellia replied, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

They drove back into town, parking in front of the Beech Street Diner. Henry held the door to the diner for his wife, a tinny bell announcing them. The diner, painted pink and green, was large enough to hold ten tables plus
the L-shaped counter with stools bolted to the tan and white checkerboard floor. The only other customers were two middle-age men with considerable bellies, wearing navy work pants and rugged brown jackets. A stout, dark-skinned woman behind the counter made coffee. On the radio, which was sitting on the end of the counter, a weepy country singer with a deep, twangy voice sang about a lost love.

Henry and Camellia sat at the short side of the counter near the door. The waitress, named Irene, according to the tag on her apron, set two cups down in front of them and poured coffee without asking. “You folks lost?” she asked, her voice loud enough to address the entire restaurant, had there been more than four
customers present.

“Just moved to town last night, actually,” Henry explained, clutching the warm cup in his hands.

Irene eyed them both in disbelief. “You two...moved here? What, are you in the Witness Protection Program or something?”

Henry laughed. “No. I took a job with a radiology practice a few miles away.”

Irene set the coffee pot on the counter and leaned on her elbows, engrossed. “Oh, a doctor! My papa always wanted me to marry a doctor,” she said with a note of disdain to Camellia. “Instead, I married a carpenter with a tendency to fall off of things. He’s currently at home nursing a broken collarbone.”

Camellia gave the waitress a weak smile and drank her equally weak coffee. Irene frowned and turned her attention back to Henry. “You at Northern Medical Center?”

“Yes, and Mercy, too. There’s also supposed to be an imaging center around here, right?”

“Yep, I see that place when I get up to Walmart. It’s right next-door.”

“Get up to Walmart?” Camellia piped in.

“Oh yeah, it’s a bit of a drive, four miles I’d say, but it’s worth knocking out a little gas in my tank. They have
everything
at Walmart.”

Camellia groaned, slipped on her coat, and grabbed the keys from the counter. “I have to make a phone call,” she lied. “I’ll be in the car.”

Irene huffed and refilled Henry’s cup. “What’s her problem?”

“My wife just needs a little time to adjust. It’s a big change from New York to Markleeville.”

“New York to
Markleeville
?” Irene screeched. “That’s like going from a Ferrari to a Model T. Your wife’s gonna need a whole load of time to get used to this place.”

THIRTEEN

Two days after arriving in Markleeville, Henry started his new job with a meeting at the radiology practice’s office, located across the street from Northern Medical Center, just a mile and a half west of Markleeville. It was Camellia’s first time alone in the cottage, and she was determined to keep busy.

It had been years since she had cleaned up anything more than her own breakfast dishes, but the cottage had been sitting unused for some time, and had acquired a thick layer of dust. She searched the kitchen cabinets as well as the shelves in the tiny mudroom that joined the house to the garage, and came up empty. The best she could find in the garage was a half-used roll of paper towel. She would have to walk to town. Pulling her tall Gucci boots over black skinny denim, she threw on her short fur coat and a pair of cropped leather gloves and exited the front door, locking it behind her. The cottage was only three blocks from town, but with a cutting, bitter wind hitting her exposed ears, the trek felt like miles.

The town was just as eerily quiet as it was the morning she and Henry had driven through en route to the storage facility. Only a few cars dotted the street and she was the only soul on foot. As she looked in the store windows, trudging along the single block that made up the heart of the downtown, Camellia realized she had limited choices for cleaning supplies. Limited choices for everything, really. Each store had a monopoly on the goods they were selling, save for the two women’s boutiques that only differentiated themselves by their names. On the same side of the street as the diner was Lisa’s Designs, and directly across the road was Cozy Corner. They both looked and sounded hopelessly outdated.

Toward the end of the block was a hardware store plainly called Henry’s Hardware, and Camellia stepped inside, grateful for the blast of heat that greeted her, along with the same tinkling bell as the diner’s. Inside was aisle upon aisle of this and that, from placemats to power tools, with a rectangular counter in the center with a cash register and unmissable display for key making. This appeared to be the only source in town willing to wedge any and all household needs into one, overcrowded space.

“Can I help you ma’am?” The boy behind the counter was young and somewhat handsome, with freshly buzzed dark hair and strong features. He was staring at her beyond that of friendly customer service.

“I’m okay, but thanks,” Camellia said, making a legitimate attempt to be friendly. Then, noticing the boy was still gawking at her, her attitude turned defensive. “Anything wrong?” she questioned, with an air of authority.

The boy broke out into a wide, toothy grin. “Oh, no ma’am. I just never seen anyone dressed like you before.”

Camellia wasn’t sure if the boy’s declaration was a compliment or mere observation. “What’s your name?” she demanded.

“Caleb, ma’am.”

“Caleb, do you think you could point me in the direction of cleaning supplies?”

“Sure. Aisle seven, ma’am.”

“Caleb?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“You’re going to have to stop calling me ma’am. You’re aging me by the minute.”

“Sorry ma’am!” Caleb called as Camellia strutted over to cleaning supplies, shaking her head.

She grabbed a bottle of Windex, a can of cleanser, another roll of paper towel, and a heavy-duty sponge, and carted them back to the counter. Caleb rang up her purchases and placed them in a paper bag. “Seven dollars and fifty seven cents,” he announced, looking pleased for ending a sentence without the unwanted ma’am attached. Camellia pulled out her Visa and handed it to Caleb. “Ten dollar limit on credit cards, ma’am.”

“Seriously?”

“I know. Sorry about the ma’am thing. I can’t help it. My grandma would strike me down if I was disrespectful to a lady.”

“No, I mean, you seriously can’t take my credit card?” Camellia tapped her foot impatiently.

“Oh sure I can. You just have to get to ten dollars.”

Camellia huffed. “Fine.” She scanned the contents of the store, noticing a couple of coffee makers on an endcap display. “I take it there aren’t any Starbucks nearby.”

“There’s one in Traverse City,” Caleb offered.

“Where’s that?”

“’Bout ninety minutes away.”

“I’ll take the coffee maker.”

Camellia lugged the bulky coffee-maker box and the bag of supplies the three blocks back to the cottage through the same cutting wind, wondering how hard it was going to be to find coffee beans.

Henry returned home just before six to find Camellia engulfed in the oversized chair, wrapped in her favorite cashmere throw, squinting at the local news on the TV that was coming in as snowy as the weather. “What’s with the TV?” he asked.

“No cable,” she muttered. “No internet access either.”

“That won’t do,” he commiserated, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. “Can you take care of that tomorrow?”

Camellia exhaled loudly. “Sure honey. What else do I have to do?”

Henry knelt in front of his wife. “I know this isn’t what you were expecting. It wasn’t what I was expecting ei
ther.” He looked at the country décor surrounding them. “This place is temporary. We’ll find a home we love.”

“Henry, we could live in a mansion with a full staff. It would still be Markleeville. How am I supposed to survive here? There’s no shopping, no Starbucks. Hell, there’s barely any people!”

“Yes, actually, I found out about the lack of people.”

“What? Where is everybody?”

“According to one of the partners, Markleeville isn’t very populated until the weather turns warm. Then it explodes. Lots of tourists come for life on the lake and the small-town charm.”

“And in the winter, it’s a ghost town.”

Henry nodded. “Afraid so. A large amount of summer homes here, apparently.”

“Any chance that come summer this place will transform into the Hamptons?”

Henry kissed his wife’s hands. “I’m kind of doubting it.”

He headed upstairs to change with Camellia on his heels. “I’m surprised you have enough patients to keep you busy at one hospital, much less two of them.”

“That’s the thing,” Henry noted, unbuttoning his shirt and slipping into a soft blue sweater. “With the amount of hunting, ice fishing, and skiing around the area, the hospitals can barely keep up. Northern Medical Center, which I saw today, isn’t the kind of hospital we’re used to. Very small scale. Barely enough staff to handle all the injuries and frost bite, not to mention every other reason people require medical care.”

“So your practice will never need for patients.”

“Nope. And I’ll tell you another thing I learned. Around here, when a guy comes in with a gunshot wound, it’s not going to be because of a burglary or some other act of violence. The poor fool most likely was mistaken for a deer.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Camellia said, looking out the bedroom window at the thick woods that was their backyard, and thinking about how close hunters might get to the cottage. In Pennsylvania, the start of deer season was like a holiday, with many schools closing for the day so kids could go off with their fathers into the woods, rifles in hand. Camellia wondered how she allowed herself to come full circle to the very type of place she spent years trying to escape.

By the end of the week, Camellia had cable television and high-speed Internet. The second she had the installer out of the house, who was noticeably perplexed by her turban and lace bed jacket, she was back in the all-consuming country-blue chair, with laptop on lap, pulling up her Internet bookmarks for Style.com, The Cut on New York Magazine’s site, and of course, Women’s Wear Daily. She read everything she could find: new designer collaborations, hits and misses from movie premieres, trend forecasts, and all the buzz for Mercedes Benz Fashion Week, which was only a month away. For the first time in a decade she would not be attending the shows.

When Henry clumped into the cottage just past seven, the new snow heavy on his boots, Camellia was still in front of the laptop, which now had two extension cords tethering it to the power source on the other side of the room. Her turban and bed jacket were still in place.

Henry discovered his wife in this same arrangement each evening for the next two weeks, save for his days off, when he insisted Camellia put away the laptop and go on driving excursions to nearby towns. He even drove her as far as Traverse City, an hour-and-a-half drive along winding two-lane roads, hoping to lift her spirits with good shopping and a busier environment. However, Camellia was not impressed when they set foot in the Grand Traverse Mall, causing Henry to announce that there would be no more trips without a little online research.

“At least it’s a full-fledged mall,” he offered.

“Yes, with full-fledged mall
stores
,” she reminded.

He interlaced his fingers in hers as they passed the typical store offerings of Express, Victoria’s Secret, and Charlotte Russe. “Maybe we should lower our expectations,” he said, gazing at the windows filled with cookie-cutter clothing.

“Maybe we should start online shopping.”

“At least there’s a real coffee shop,” Henry said, pointing ahead. “I’ve seen what a good cappuccino can do for you. Let’s go.”

One full hour of coffee sipping and people watching was all Camellia could take. “Why do I feel like I’m the one people are watching?” she questioned as they sat at a little table with a wide view of the mall’s second floor. The passersby of young families and teens traveling in groups, all in nondescript clothing topped with bulky outerwear, conspicuously gaped at Camellia’s bright abstract dress and thigh-high boots.

“Well, you don’t exactly blend in.” 

“These are Etro boots straight off the runway!” she exclaimed. “They are the epitome of chic!”

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Henry said, admiring Camellia’s shapely legs covered in laced-up leather. “But I don’t think the locals are used to seeing such grand fashion statements.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Camellia questioned, getting up from the table and tossing her paper cup into the wastebasket. “Is exciting fashion only allowed in highly populated areas? Henry, it’s not like there’s no money around here. We’re standing in the middle of a resort town and the only label people seem to understand is North Face.”

They scurried through the frigid parking lot into the black Jeep Grand Cherokee Henry had purchased from an area dealer. “Why don’t you drive?” Henry asked. “You’ve got to relearn sooner or later.”

“Later please,” Camellia said sharply, fastening the seatbelt.

“Don’t you want your own car?
To be able to take off whenever you like?”

Camellia looked at Henry and grinned devilishly. “Aren’t you concerned I might start driving and not stop?”

He hit the gas and backed out of the parking spot. “Maybe I should be.”

“I’ll make you a deal: Once this ice melts and I don’t have to worry that one bad turn will send me over an embankment, I’ll give driving a try. But if I’m not comfortable, you’re getting me a car and driver.”

“In Markleeville?” Henry crowed. “That won’t have people staring at you
at all
.”

“Henry,” Camellia sighed, gazing out at the quiet road in front of them, “Markleeville needs a serious makeover.”

“And there’s no one better to make that happen than you.”