The Wonder Garden (24 page)

Mark nods. “But you'll want to be sensitive, regardless.”

“Of course,” Gretchen chimes. “Anyway, let me show you what we're thinking, then you let us know if you can make it work.”

She turns away, and Mark rolls his eyes at Harris, who smirks. They follow her up the narrow staircase, its steps groaning with age. Harris trails behind, his knee joints blasted by late-stage Lyme disease. Probably picked up in the garden during their first weeks in the house, before they'd learned to wear kneesocks.

Caspar Von Mauren appears silently at the top of the staircase, an apparition in white linen. The attic would become his home office. The walls separating the two smaller bedrooms would vanish to create a master suite, and the third bedroom would become a his-and-hers bath. The kitchen pantry would morph into a powder room, and the kitchen itself would grow a glassed-in sunroom.

“The front has to stay the same, I know that. We wouldn't want to change that.” Gretchen looks at her husband, as if for confirmation. “And I'm already picturing some of the things from the store in here. The barn-door table right here in the dining room, with the Windsor chairs around it. Also, I'd love to enlarge some of the windows in the back, get some more light in here.”

Mark makes notes on his little pad with a metal pen. He fills pages. If these people are serious about their plans, the job will take a good year.

At home, Harris opens a '93 Dom.

Mark shakes his head. “It's not official yet.”

“Oh, you know it is. Cheers, and kudos to me for matchmaking.”

“Thank you.”

“Come on, let's take this to the patio.”

They sit at the wrought-iron bistro table and drink. Here it is, their home. Their dream house, a restored Victorian in a neighborhood of restored Victorians, a perfect row of painted ladies. Theirs is yellow with sage trim, a pink-iced porch ceiling. They are bookended by other marzipan confections; their flowering backyard abuts other flowering yards. Their quarter acre is bordered by a lattice-top fence flush with hydrangea bushes and honeysuckle vines. Even the name of their road—Mercy—suits this particular kind of American paradise, this miniature encapsulation of English gardenhood. This is what had appealed to them, this manageable, modest utopia, this antithesis of trashy sprawl. It pains Mark to think that he has outgrown it so quickly.

It will take over a week to prepare an estimate for the Von Maurens. Mark sits in the garden each day with his laptop, staring at the bed of snapdragons Harris has planted. His head fills with fuzz, and his breath becomes shallow. Allergies, he wants to believe.

Three days later, he has not even finished an estimate for the kitchen. Harris returns from the store at six, like any commuting husband, portly and hungry, the king of his castle.

“The Von Maurens came in today. I told them how excited you are about the project.” He grins. “They put a deposit on the Windsor chairs. When I mentioned that the woodworker lives in town, they flipped. They want him to carve their initials into the chair combs. These people love to support their local craftsmen, you know.”

“And underpaid Mexicans, too.”

“Mark, I looked them up today. Do you know who these people are?”

“Um, no?”

“
Gretchen
is a rubber heiress. Her father is a Texas tire baron. And
Caspar
is an actual baron. From Liechtenstein.”

“Ha. I knew he was German.”

“No,
Liechtensteinien
.”

“Oh, please.”

“I'm going to invite them for drinks.”

“No, you're not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why, Harris? What do we want with these people?”

“Honey, you need to think like a businessman. These people are top rung. They're all over the gala pages. Your design could wind up in
Town & Country
.”

“God forbid.”

“Oh my God, when did you become such a snob?”

Mark opens his mouth but does not answer. It would be overly hostile to remind Harris that they'd come to this place with an understanding, a quiet contract, a shared touch of irony. They'd come as a pair of anthropologists to masquerade among the natives, or so Mark had thought, to mirror their culture and borrow from its abundance. They were not supposed to adopt it; they were not supposed to blend.

Harris opens a Bordeaux Blanc while the Von Maurens rave about the house and everything in it. Gretchen touches the objects on the tables, picks them up, turns them in her hands. She taps the Ghost chair with a fingernail and lowers herself finally into one of the antique fauteuils, letting her fingers splay upon the saffron Bergamo upholstery. She points to the flokati ottoman that rests like a sheepdog at her feet.

“Mark's design,” Harris trumpets.

Through the avid eyes of visitors, Mark can't help but be pleased with their home. They have achieved an impeccable mix of new and old, sleek and textured, Mark's eye for classic symmetry counterbalancing Harris's more exuberant tastes. Mark has had to hold him back from too much Jonathan Adler, tempting as it is. Already, he regrets rubber-stamping the eight-by-ten Union Jack rug in the living room. It dominates, limits their options. Also, he would like to sell the third-rate Hirst spin painting that they'd bought at the height of the market, but which has lost its dimension over the years and become a flat thing.

As the swooning continues, Mark becomes resentful. Perhaps he should take their fixation on decor as a compliment to his designer's eye, but it is edging into a presumption that he and Harris have no other interests. He tries to change the topic of conversation to something political, global. It occurs to him that a Liechtenstein
baron might have something to say about the EU crisis.

“The whole endeavor was misguided from the start,” Caspar responds without expression or gesture.

“I just have to say I love your window seat there.” Gretchen points. “Is that original to the house?”

Harris opens a second bottle of wine, a third. He is glowing. This is not what Mark had pictured when he'd pictured the parties they'd have. The baron seems to be relaxing a bit, leaning back in his fauteuil. Gretchen keeps touching Harris's arm as they talk, as if she is hungry for something.

Harris is now cherub pink. He leans in, and in a breathlessly intimate voice says, “So, tell me. Are you two youngsters thinking of having a family?”

Mark stares at him. During the bubble of silence that follows, he feels himself levitate slightly.

At last, Gretchen smiles serenely. “Not until the house is done.”

Harris leans back, showcasing his jolly belly, and glances at Mark with a look that says,
How nice for them
.

A flame lashes Mark's insides. “We've talked about joining the Peace Corps,” he pronounces.

The baron does not appear to have heard. Gretchen's eyes widen. “Oh,” she intones in her deep-sea voice. “That's so admirable. I have so much respect for people who do that kind of thing. I can't even imagine.”

They move on to Armagnac. The Von Maurens inhabit the pair of fauteuils like extensions of the damask itself. Mark rarely sits on these himself, for fear of flattening the cushions, taxing the bowed legs. His love for them is jealous. And yet he could sell them, he thinks. He
should
sell them, sell everything in the room, escort these guests away, divest himself.

The next morning, Mark confronts Harris. “I can't believe you asked if they want to have children.”

“I don't think that's too intrusive, do you? People ask all the time. People ask
us.
” He looks meaningfully at Mark.

“What if they're infertile? What if they've tried and can't?”

“Like I said, people ask
us
all the time. And
we
obviously can't conceive children. There are other ways to have a family you know.”

Mark is silent.

“I really think we should talk to Camille.”

“I've already said I don't want to do that.”

“Well, what
do
you want to do?”

Again, Mark is silent. Harris knows that Mark has never wanted children. Part of the relief of coming out at eighteen was knowing that he would never be expected to anchor himself that way. He'd be released from conventional latches; free to travel, sleep with whomever he wanted, reinvent himself infinitely. That was the upside of losing popular approval. But then, like piercings and tattoos, gay culture had insinuated itself in the mainstream, and all at once, same-sex marriage had become legal. This, despite years of activism, had taken Mark by surprise—and had coincided with the deepening of his relationship with Harris.

“We have so much to offer. A stable home environment, a great town, financial security. It would be a shame to keep it all to ourselves.”

He is trotting out the practical argument, but his eyes tell a different story. Mark has seen the way Harris melts over infants. It was amusing, at first, the way he behaved like a woman overtaken by maternal hormones. Now, it makes Mark's groin turn cold.

“What you want is a
baby
,” Mark says. “But you're forgetting that they're only babies for five minutes, then they're snotty teenagers and have to go to college. Do you know how much college is going to cost in eighteen years?”

“What else would we do with that money?”

“Are you serious?” Mark goes quiet. He does not have the strength to continue this argument. If Harris can't think of a better way to spend—what? two hundred thousand dollars?—then they are truly ill matched.

The larger truth is that Mark is not interested in the kind of sentimental living, the relentless diminution, that parenting imposes. A child would drain all of their energy, all of their resources—both of which could be better spent on bigger issues. How could a man he loves bear witness to this ruptured, calamitous world without taking action? Their circumstances
are
perfect. They are two men in good health, somewhat young. The house can be rented, the store leased and reopened at a later date. There is no excuse not to go, not to make their best years count.

He thinks of Seth, sandaled and dusty in some medina. The thought makes him hate himself. To any observer, he has dwelled too long in pampered comfort to peel off the caul of materialism. He has terminally softened.

After a long moment, Harris says, “I know what you're thinking. That we should devote ourselves to saving the world.” There is no sarcasm in his voice. “But the way I see it, having a child, or adopting one, would be a way to do that. It would be a meaningful contribution. It's no small effort, committing ourselves to a human being who needs us.”

Mark is suddenly tired. It is too early in the morning to discuss this. He ends the conversation with a kiss to Harris's stubbled cheek, a stroke to the sleeve of his robe. Harris returns the kiss, his brown eyes softening, turning liquid with hope.

On Monday, Mark completes an estimate for the full scope of services. He will supervise the renovation and work with the clients to select furnishings, cabinetry, appliances, lighting. To justify postponing his own travels to the Third World, he is compelled to furtively raise his prices by 10 percent across the board. He pulls in his breath and types in the total—$342,000—plus contingency fees for special purchases.

The packet, printed on heavy stock, easily weighs two pounds. Rather than e-mailing it, he drives to Cannonfield Road and places the parcel into the mailbox. His logo,
MARK TILLY DESIGNS
, in lowercase Courier, dwells in the bottom corner of the envelope like a centipede.

Gretchen Von Mauren calls the same afternoon. Only indignation could prompt such a call, Mark thinks. She is offended by his audacity.

“Hello, Mrs. Von Mauren,” he says, his voice lowering involuntarily.

“Mark, I've looked over the estimate. I'd like you to throw it out.”

He drops onto the Ghost chair. “My apologies, Mrs. Von Mauren. Perhaps I should have spoken with you in more depth about what you and your husband hope to achieve.”

“No, no. That's not what I mean. What I want you to do is throw out the numbers, don't worry about the money, don't worry about completion dates. There is no budget, there is no timeline. We want this house to be a showstopper. Believe me, I wouldn't be talking to you if I didn't trust your instincts.”

Mark's eyes rest on the Hirst over the mantel, a citrus vortex with an empty center.

“Well, I don't know what to say. Thank you, Gretchen, for the vote of confidence.”

“So you'll draft a master plan for us?”

“Yes, yes.” He has a nauseous feeling from looking at the painting. “I'll have to come over to take another look before I can start.”

“Come tomorrow.”

He begins to hand-draft the interior elevations. It is already August. They'll have to skip Provincetown this year. Truth be told, they've both tired of the high-season flamboyance, the flapping colors, the vibrating sexual energy. They are no different from other middle-aged couples, perhaps, in obeying this instinct to slow down and turn inward.

Harris announces that he will need to hire someone at the store while Mark is working on the project. “I'll put an ad in the paper. Unless we know someone?”

Mark calls Camille.

“I don't think I'd be good at customer service,” she says, “but I do know someone you might like.”

The woman comes in for an interview. Madeleine, a transplant from Charles Street, near their old apartment. She doesn't have knowledge of vintage decor, but is attractive and poised.

“She might take away some of the gayness,” Harris quips. “I didn't see a wedding ring, did you? She must be single, or maybe divorced?”

“Maybe she's a lesbian.”

“Camille would have mentioned
that.
”