Phoebe sat up. “Unknowns! Yes. That is what I’ve been dealing with.” Perhaps Rose understood, after all. This was Phoebe’s opening.
“However,” Rose interjected, “that doesn’t change the end number. When all is said and done, you still have the funds you started with. Maybe you save money on the roofing budget, but maybe the septic goes over. We allow leeway.”
“Leeway,” Phoebe repeated. She smiled at Rose. Now they were talking.
“But unless something major changes to the plans or property value, we don’t loan more money than the value of the project as a whole.”
Phoebe felt herself deflate. “So, I can’t get more, and I can’t get it any sooner.”
Rose shook her head. “Unless there is a compelling reason, some sort of crisis.” She sat back in her seat. “Is there a crisis?”
The back of Phoebe’s neck prickled. Why else would she be sitting here practically begging for a fund increase? “I wouldn’t call it a crisis, exactly.” Phoebe paused.
“If there is, we should review your books.”
Books? The closest thing Phoebe had to books were a Thomas the Tank notepad stuffed with receipts, chicken-scratch numbers, and messy handwritten Post-it notes. All in different-colored ink. If she were to hand over her “books,” the bank would see it all: thebudgeted line values went way over what the original construction estimate sheet allowed for. Phoebe was in crisis, but the crisis was of her making. And the bank might get nervous and step in. What was that nifty little term she’d glossed over in the loan agreement: right of seizure? Phoebe would lose control of the project. Or worse, lose the house.
She wagged her head. “No crisis. Just a little setback with the unforeseen termite and sill structure issues.”
“It happens,” Rose allowed. “And I’m sorry to hear you’re experiencing it. At this stage, we recommend the homeowner and general contractor discuss and try to adjust the cost estimate sheet accordingly.” She paused. “However, if it’s something you can’t seem to resolve, then you should come back to me. I can call for a review and a site visit from the bank.”
Phoebe let out a nervous laugh, one she’d intended to sound carefree but which she realized had come more as a squawk. “Oh, no. No, thank you. There’s no need for any kind of review. My contractor has helped me adjust accordingly, and I just wanted to come in today to bring you up to speed. Really, I can’t believe how beautiful the house looks.” She glanced at the inspection file, which she knew held photo updates of the last inspection. “What’d you think of the siding color?”
Rose did not comment on the color. Instead, she sat back and offered Phoebe a mixed look that could at best be called one of empathetic scrutiny. “New construction is a huge undertaking, and we realize that. What’s important now is to try to stay on track with the funds. Itemization is your friend.”
Friend? Was Rose offering encouragement, or a warning? It didn’t matter. The woman was a vault. A vault of funds completely inaccessible to Phoebe. Phoebe needed to get out of there. She gathered her purse and reached across the desk with what shereally hoped was a firm handshake. “Thanks, again. It was nice to catch up.”
Outside, Phoebe scurried across the parking lot and into her car. Coming to the bank had been a terrible idea. All she’d managed to do was to confirm her fears: she was running out of money. And now she’d probably given Rose Calloway cause to scrutinize the project from here on out. Phoebe glanced around the car, at the crumpled juice boxes. At the granola bar wrappers fluttering between the seats, the uncapped Crayola markers, and a lone shin guard left by one of the boys. She was half tempted to go back inside and pluck Rose out from behind her desk. Bring her out to the car to itemizethatshit show.
Instead, she sank back in the driver’s seat and closed her eyes. Everything was turning into a mess. Her dream house. Her finances. Maybe even her marriage. She looked at the clock and cursed. She was fucking late to preschool again.
Perry
It was a nice enough day to be out on the lake, he’d allow that, but there were more important things to do. For starters, the lawn. The crew had done a royally shoddy job. Perry strode across the front yard inspecting the borders of the garden beds. Cedar-colored mulch was bunched around the base of his boxwoods in large uneven clumps. Perry had asked for black cedar, not this artificially charged orange variety. Worse, much of it was piled right up to the edging, which he had specifically stated he wanted to be well defined. He’d have to get down on his hands and knees and rearrange it.
The front door opened and Amelia popped her head out. “What are you doing? It’s almost time to go.”
Perry kept working. “I wish someone had asked me about the timing of this family boating excursion,” he said. “One o’clock is right in the middle of the day.”
“Exactly,” she replied. “Which is prime for swimming. And fun,” she added. She waited until he stood up and brushed his knees off, which they both noticed at the same time were now stained orange.
Perry sighed and followed her inside. Didn’t anyone do their job well anymore?
Amelia handed him a wet paper towel and returned her attention to the cooler she was packing. He could see a good bottle of rosé sticking out the top. “Where’s Emma?” he asked, as he scrubbed at his knees.
“Upstairs. In her room.”
“Still? But why?”
Amelia shrugged and went to the fridge for a wedge of cheese. “She’s a teenager. That’s what teenagers do.”
“I didn’t do that. She’s spending a lot of time up there lately.”
“You worry too much,” Amelia said.
Perry supposed his wife was right. She was probably just tired from her long days working at the Club camp. Perry loved that she had a summer job there. He loved most of all the wholesomeness of it all: working outdoors teaching small children to swim and kayak. It was the best part of living in their private gated community, and it made all those years of holding his breath on the membership waiting list worth it.
Getting into the Candlewood Cove Clubhouse had not been easy. It was an exclusive Club that catered not only to those living primarily in the community but also to members who had somethingto offer. Members included bankers and artists, philanthropists and writers. Some of them were legacy members, whose families had long established their place since its inception. In the early 1930s the Club had been a bit of a social enclave of New Yorkers seeking respite and privacy away from the hustle of the city. To this day, the membership was capped at one hundred families, and spaces did not open up with any regularity. Gaining membership required an application, sponsorship by current members, and an interview of the entire family. When he was growing up, Perry’s family had known members and had always socialized on the outskirts of the Club, but as much as he lovedhis parents, they weren’t membership material. Jane was too outspoken, too liberal. Edward was not impressed with the trappings of those who already belonged. But Jake had been the most perplexed. “Why on earth would you want to waste your money to blow smoke up all those conservative butts?” Perry had not bothered to explain why. If Jake didn’t understand now, he never would.
