"The kitchen needs updating," she warns. "And the electrical system is somewhat historical."
Historicalproves optimistic. The kitchen predates modern safety codes, the bathroom fixtures remember the Eisenhower administration, and the basement contains mysterious pipes that may or may not connect to actual plumbing.
But the front parlor has acoustics that make my voice resonate like cathedral bells. The upstairs bedrooms offer space for separate offices. The backyard could accommodate a garden ambitious enough to supply actual vegetables instead of wilted grocery store offerings.
I make an offer.
Keeping secrets from Maya requires tactical planning worthy of military campaigns. Contractor meetings happen duringher coffee shop writing sessions. Phone calls occur during my campus office hours. The down payment paperwork gets completed at the university library while she believes I'm researching nineteenth-century dialectical variations.
"You're acting strange," she observes one evening, curled against my side while we watch television.
"Strange how?"
"Secretive. Distracted. You asked me to repeat something three times during dinner."
I press a kiss to her hair, inhaling the scent of her vanilla shampoo. "Work stress. End of semester grading."
Not entirely false. Iamgrading final exams while simultaneously coordinating electrical updates and arguing with contractors about load-bearing wall modifications.
The renovation timeline becomes ambitious bordering on foolhardy. Maya's birthday is November fifteenth. The contractors promise completion by November tenth, which provides a comfortable buffer assuming no catastrophic delays.
October brings three catastrophic delays.
First: the original hardwood floors hide water damage requiring complete subflooring replacement. Second: updating the electrical system reveals that previous owners possessed creative interpretations of safety codes. Third: the kitchen renovation uncovers a family of raccoons who've established residence and refuse eviction.
"The raccoons aren't technically our problem," contractor Pete explains during an emergency phone call I take while hiding in the university's supply closet. "But they've become emotionally attached to the space."
"How emotionally attached can raccoons become?"
"They've built a nursery in the pantry. Babies involved."
Maya's birthday approaches while I negotiate raccoon relocation services and explain to her why I'm receiving increasingly frantic phone calls about "wildlife management."
"Pest control research," I tell her when she raises questioning eyebrows. "For my linguistics department. Studying... um... animal communication patterns."
She accepts this explanation with the patience of someone married to an academic whose research interests occasionally veer toward the eccentric.
November tenth arrives with good news: raccoons successfully relocated, electrical system operational, hardwood floors gleaming. Bad news: kitchen cabinets delayed, bathroom fixtures backordered, front porch steps somewhat structurally questionable.
"Close enough," I decide.
November fifteenth dawns crisp and clear. Maya wakes expecting her usual birthday routine: coffee, croissants, small thoughtful gifts exchanged in our cramped bedroom.
Instead, I present her with a blindfold and car keys.
"Adventure birthday," I announce. "Trust me."
"The last time you said 'trust me,' we ended up lost in that corn maze for four hours."
"This involves significantly less agricultural confusion."
The drive to Maple Street takes twelve minutes during which Maya speculates increasingly wildly about our destination. Spa day? Surprise party? Elaborate restaurant reservation? Her guesses grow more creative as we navigate residential neighborhoods.
"Are we visiting someone? Meeting your secret American orc relatives? Oh God, please tell me you didn't arrange some kind of cultural exchange program..."
I park in front of 1247 Maple Street and guide her carefully up the newly reinforced front steps.
"Okay," I say, positioning her before the front door. "Remove the blindfold."
