“Don’t backpedal, Stinky,” Mira cut in. She plopped herself down on the sofa and grabbed her mother’s arm. “Ma, the truth is they’re truly, deeply bad. He really shouldn’t have bothered. I mean, honestly, man.”

Mrs. Park gripped the pile of stories to her chest, not saying a word.

Mira sighed dramatically. “Look, if you can’t, like, face up to reality, then I don’t know what else to say to you!” She stomped to her room and slammed the door. A second later, her head popped out to glower at her sister. “Rosie, tell her! She obviously doesn’t believe me. Don’t be a freakin’ two-face, alright?” The door banged shut again.

Mrs. Park was staring at a stain on the carpet three feet away. Rosemary reached for her mother’s arm but her mother pulled away. “Ma . . .”

Mrs. Park got up and headed to the front door with the stories. She kicked off her “inside” slippers and shoved her sullen feet into her “outside” slippers (which were the same exact slippers except not stained and frayed).

“Where are you going, Ma?”

“You only child, you not know anything!”

“Ma, we can’t let—”

But the door slammed shut.

– 2 –

– 2 –

THE CRAFTSMAN

Raymond van der Holt pondered the catalog. Would a seven-candle chandelier bring the front room into balance? The twelve-candle model that came with the house was excessive. He’d been thinking of downsizing for months and the Restoration Hardware sale had come to the rescue. Then again, if he could just wait it out, there was the discount weekend in December . . .

This was how Raymond had been spending the past five or six years. Pondering catalogs, being selective about what he wanted, and being even more selective about what he actually bought. He couldn’t spend as giddily as he used to—the royalties and movie options would dry up, and he’d be left with only his 1924 Craftsman house and the beautiful, pedigree-free objects within it. (He never antiqued—germs!)

At fifty-five, he kept himself smooth-skinned with a panoply of Kiehl’s ointments. He retained a full head of hair, which was a source of pride because his father had gone bald at thirty-nine, and he combed this silver nest before answering the door, no matter who rang, mailman or Jehovah’s Witness. He was not vain, per se; he just had an old-fashioned sense of decorum, and he liked what he liked: grownupness. During times of distress, he perked himself up by channeling Cary Grant gliding down the stairs with a highball. There was an original Batchelder-tile fireplace in his living room, muted and mellow with rabbits and pinecones. Gazing at it also calmed him, but Cary Grant had better dimples.