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Their white stucco home was built up three stories in staggered variations and shapes with one wide hexagon peak centered over the foyer. The lack of symmetry sometimes irritated her, so she focused her energy on maintaining the inside of the home. Libby liked things just so and took pride in keeping her home lovely and neat for Mason and herself.
When she reached the third floor she opened what she referred to as the ‘tower guestroom’. Dressed completely in pristine shades of white and ivory, the chic French escape was as untouched as the day before when she inspected it. No one had been up there besides her, but it was her routine to inspect each and every room each day. It gave her a feeling of rightness. She rotated the ivory lampshade one third of the way around the bulb, altering only one version of perfect for another.
Descending to the second floor, starting with the other, more masculine guestroom, she quickly peeked in and found everything as it should be. She flipped the switch at the door, bathing the room in a pale golden glow, on, off, on, off, on, off. A sense of satisfaction blanketed her and she moved on.
Her small feet trod quietly over the plush ivory runner as she inspected each area. The soft click of one solid oak door after another and the whisper of her linen skirt as she moved, was the only proof the home wasn’t vacant. She favored the solitude of her soft intrusion. The sounds of her gentle presence calmed her anxiety.
The casual den, Mason’s study, and the powder room all were perfectly tidy and freshened. When she reached the entertainment room she pressed the shuffle key on the disk player and moved to the next room. Yesterday was Motown so today would be Jazz. She’d spent hours solving the formula that their stereo followed to appear random. It was really only a simple matter of altering odd numbers followed by a sequence of altering even numbered tracks.
By the time she reached their bedroom, the rich, cool vocals of Etta James filled the house from small recessed speakers hidden in each room, even the guest bedrooms. She smiled. This CD always reminded Liberty of when they saw Ms. James perform at a private concert in New Orleans a few years back.
Believing their room was just as she left it ten minutes ago, she moved past the freshly made bed and straight into the master bath. She adored her bathroom. It was a perfect circle with a glass cathedral ceiling and Parisian chandelier set precisely in the center. Mason referred to the bathroom as her palace of beauty.
Sitting in her skirted diamond back vanity seat she reached into the upper drawer of her jewelry box and found two tortoise shell chopsticks. Liberty’s blonde hair was something Mason had always adored. It hung to her shoulders in wide unruly curls that only time and patience had taught her to tame. Never satisfied with the way the front laid, given that she had about six cowlicks, she wore her bangs in loose chopped twirls just above her blue eyes. With practiced ease she twisted her hair atop her head and pinned it in place with the identical sticks.
Straightening her posture, elongating her neck, she turned her chin first left then right. She delicately finagled an unruly curl until it fell in line with the others. “Perfect,” she complimented her reflection.
From her crystal jewelry box she plucked her Mother of Pearl stud earrings and fastened them in her lobes. When finished, she quickly tidied the vanity and returned downstairs.
The scent of apple pie baking in the oven filled the foyer. Visiting the kitchen briefly, she stirred the marinade. Tonight would be chicken sautéed in a marmalade marinade with baby carrots in a complimenting glaze, and fresh spring salad. The apple pie, Mason’s favorite, was for dessert. They would be celebrating his thirty-eighth birthday tonight.
She polished two silver place settings that morning and dressed the table with a long burgundy runner and a low centerpiece filled with nine ripe green pears. Two ivory chargers that cradled place settings taken from their wedding china, sat upon rich satin placemats retrieved from the dry cleaner’s that morning. Wedding china was only for holidays and birthdays, but the crystal they used daily. Satin napkins folded in thirds rested half a teaspoon’s length to the left of the charger. The butter knife shone under the candlelight, a teacup’s diameter from the lip of the placemat. Perfect. What Mason would see as merely practical propriety, Liberty secretly drew contentment from, each piece holding a particular place and filling a fastidious hunger.
Once the table was dressed, Libby made her way back to the kitchen and finished preparing their meal. At six o’clock on the dot the low hum of her husband’s Mercedes pulling into the garage accompanied a tingle of relief as the feeling bloomed inside of her. Mason always had impeccable timing. She quickly wiped her hands on a dishcloth, rushing to fold the hand towel properly into thirds down the center then thirds across the length so that no rough edges showed. After setting it down precisely one inch from the edge of the counter and one from the edge of the sink, she hastily moved to the front door.
