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Chapter 23
Brandon left early the next week for meetings in Washington and LA. He was getting tired of traveling so much, but as he continued to negotiate selling his shares of Ventures, I knew it was important to him that the company remain stable rather than simply going to the highest bidders. It was a long process, and a time-consuming one.
The day before, we had gone together to a small, early morning Mass at our local parish (it felt very strange to refer to a parish as part mine). Hope had arranged for a few photographers to be present as I received the Rite of Acceptance as a catechumen, with Brandon acting as my smirking sponsor.
It was a brief ceremony, with a few clearly rote phrases welcoming me to the community spoken by Father Garrett, in which I was invited to stand in front of the parishioners and confirm my desire to join the church. That was the most mortifying part. Normally, Father Garrett told me, they would cluster the Inquirers (as we were called) into groups at certain times of the year. But we were a special case and so Brandon and I stood near the altar by ourselves, with a photographer from The Globe clicking away as Brandon introduced me to the parish with his trademark charm. Afterward, Father Garrett began the brief script we had gone over in his office.
"What do you ask of God's Church?" he asked.
I took the microphone from Brandon and recited the answer I had been taught: "I ask the Church for baptism and to receive the Word of God."
I was then presented with a copy of the Gospel, toward which I bowed my head. A few more pictures were taken, and after I sat through the Mass, Brandon gave a brief interview with the Globe reporter. Then we went home.
It hadn't taken long. Maybe fifteen minutes in all. But I walked out of the Church feeling different, and not in an entirely good way. So by Monday, I was glad to be on my own to process things for a bit.
Brandon had left me early in the golden morning light, giving me a flash of muscle while he covered me with his body, letting me know just how much he would miss me while he was gone. He had also given me another mission: call Margie and find us a new place to live. Considering all of the other things about my life that seemed out of my control, it was a task I was now willing to take on. We were both heartily sick of the cold-edged penthouse and more eager than ever to find a place that felt like us.
So, while I didn't have a lot of time to spend house hunting, I found myself spending my lunch hours paging through real estate sites, although without the slightest idea what I was looking for. Did we want a house or an apartment? In the center of the city or outside of it? Did Brandon want another massive house on the Commons or in Back Bay, or would he be okay with something more modest? After a few days of looking, the process was starting to cause more stress than anything else.
"What about this one?" Jane asked through my monitor on Wednesday. She was working from home on her computer, and it was nice to see my friend's face as I scrolled through listings with her.
I clicked on the link and scowled at the modern construction out in Natick. "Ugh, no. That place looks like a refrigerator."
"Well, it's environmentally friendly. Isn't that what you wanted?"
I sighed. "Ideally, yes, but we can always make those changes after we buy. I don't want some place that looks like the inside of a laboratory. That's what we're trying to get away from."
"Well, what do you want?" Jane asked for the millionth time. It was a question I hadn't been able to answer very well.
I leaned my head onto my fist. "Like the Cape, I guess."
It was the only answer I could come up with. I wasn't particularly interested in interior design, having never really had a place to decorate in the first place. I had lived in exactly three places my entire adult life: my grandmother's sagging brown house in Brooklyn, the university-issued apartment I'd shared with Jane through law school, and Eric's tiny place in the North End. Only the last had required me to actually furnish it, and even that was minimal and mostly secondhand––a far sight from the essentially unlimited budget I was working with now.
I didn't count the ice palace. The penthouse felt like a hotel, a lavish pit stop, and always would.
I clicked aimlessly through other listings around the Boston area. There were so many unanswered questions that Brandon had laughed off as he left. When I'd asked about our price range, he had given me a look like I was crazy. When I'd asked about size, amenities, neighborhood, he had shrugged every time and said it was up to me. He just wanted a place where the two of us could be happy, he said. A place that felt like home.
Whatever the hell that meant.
"How about this?" Jane said.
I clicked on the link she sent me, which took me to a picture of a sprawling ranch-style home on several acres of property in Newton. I scowled.
"Ugh," I said. "Do I look like a soccer mom? That place is so cookie-cutter."
"I give up!" Jane said. "I have better things to do than get shot down for everything I send you."
"Would you want to live in a house like this?" I retorted.
"Of course not! But I'm not the one who's engaged to someone who basically wants to create his own version of Leave It to Beaver."
I snorted. "Come on. Just because he wants a family doesn't mean Brandon is a fifties' sitcom character."
"Meh. You say potato..." Jane replied.
As I passed the mouse over a new listing on the map, a thumbnail photo of a house popped up. I froze, knuckle in my mouth.
"Earth to Skylar. Did you get lockjaw? Seriously, chickie, you look like you're about to start drooling on your keyboard."
