Neighborly(19)

When we first got married, he never just said, “This is Katrina.” No, it was, “This is my wife, Kat.” He was proud of me, the way I’m proud to present Sadie. It’s one of his most endearing aspects.

“What’s going on?” he asks, sensing my hesitation.

“We’re just such small potatoes.”

“The Praegers are big potatoes. King Spuds.”

That’s a name that will stick, I can tell. “See you at the King Spuds’!” he’ll call out. That’s if we make it to a second hangout. The night is still young.

Noticing my fidgeting, Doug tells me, “You look great.”

I don’t know that I believe him, but it gets me to ring the bell. Andie opens the door immediately, like she’s been waiting just inside for us.

The whole place is filled with this almost religiously golden light, reflecting off the yellow walls, as if we’re entering a monastery. The entryway flows into the living room, and there’s mahogany wood everywhere—the floors, the railing, the exposed beams. The living room has an imposing brick fireplace at its center. There are orange velvet wing chairs and a green velvet sofa, heavy draperies and what has to be a real Persian rug. I’m not sure I like it, but you can’t help but respect it. This is a serious house.

You wouldn’t know that a baby lives here, except in the living room, where I see the same vibrating chair from our house (so they shop at Target, too!). They also have one of those Jumperoos we’ve been meaning to get. Both look laughably out of place.

I finally realize that Andie’s been talking, and fortunately, Doug’s been talking back. She ushers us inside.

Andie’s even more petite than I remembered, dressed casually in jeans and a brightly patterned button-down shirt. She’s holding Fisher in her arms. He’s in a striped Sleep & Play that has a touch of Rikers Island to it. She’s got some sort of orange puree (carrot? sweet potato?) in her thick strawberry-blonde hair. She’s a hands-on parent, apparently, though she doesn’t have to be, and that makes me warm up to her and let my guard down. That, and her smile. She’s freckled and dimpled and despite her house, there’s something down-to-earth about her.

Sadie is gazing at Andie with fascination. I give her chin a wipe with the burp cloth.

Fisher has begun to squirm in Andie’s arms. He’s a blocky kid, with dark eyes, very little hair, and surprisingly brutish features for a baby, like Andie’s got a future schoolyard bully on her hands.

Nolan walks in. He’s short, five seven or so, and older than Andie. She looks my age, midthirties, and I’d peg him as midforties at the youngest. He’s dressed identically to Doug: North Face fleece, jeans, and high-tech running shoes. They both start laughing. I can’t help noticing that Doug is much better looking and a good five inches taller. “Can I get you two anything? Coffee, tea, Perrier, beer, wine?” Nolan offers. “We’ve got a great Pinot. We bought a case of it on our last trip to Napa.”

“No, thanks,” I say.

Andie is making faces at Sadie, who is giggling. Sadie never calms down unless something has stopped or started; something has to change. Like when Andie takes her attention off her and she lets out a sudden, windowpane-rattling cry. Her face turns crimson, fast. It’s the flip side of that peaches-and-cream complexion.

“She might need to eat,” Doug says. He looks at his watch casually. “How long’s it been?”

“Can you get the bottle out of her diaper bag, please?” Sadie is screaming, eyes bulging. It’s like we’ve never fed her before. It’s that way every time. I shift her in my arms and coo, even as I know it won’t work. Only the bottle will do. Still, I want them to see that I’m a loving mother. The first hangout is always an audition.

Doug hands the bottle to me, and Sadie wraps her lips around it, eyelids drooping dramatically. “You’re not breastfeeding, either?” Andie asks me.

“She’s drinking my milk. But she never latched.”

“So you pump all her milk?” As I nod, Andie smiles at me. “Good for you. That takes a lot of discipline. I’d miss my wine too much.”

“Not that she has the option,” Nolan says. “Fisher’s adopted.” He looks at Fisher fondly, like an especially good acquisition. I don’t know why I thought that. There’s nothing overtly objectionable about Nolan. He just reminds me of someone. I can’t place who, but it’s unsettling. “Why don’t we relocate?”

Andie smacks her head. “Sorry about that. I’ve got you feeding your daughter in the foyer. Follow me.”

We trail her to the dining room. It’s through a doorway that’s limned in mahogany, framed like a picture. There’s a casement window and persimmon-colored draperies left open to reveal brighter light than the other parts of the house we’ve glimpsed. There’s a long, narrow antique table with eight chairs upholstered the pale-green color of sea grass.

“Jesus, that’s beautiful,” I blurt.

Andie grins. “This is actually my favorite room.”

“Andie did the decorating herself,” Nolan says. “With some consultation.” She had an interior designer, is what he probably means. But who cares? It’s still Andie’s vision that I love.

The table is laid out with a lavish spread, all sorts of crackers, cheeses, olives, and dips, of which I can only recognize hummus. Nolan starts to point and name things like “walnut pomegranate,” but I’m transfixed by the kitchen beyond. It’s immense, with vintage red-painted cabinets, a random plank wood floor, and an enormous kitchen island, and it has the most amazing ceiling I’ve ever seen: a series of sunken square panels, each made out of a different species of wood with its own unique patinas.