She bent over, straightening the pillows on a large white sofa; part of an all-white living room display, with two matching chairs and a loveseat.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Viveca.”

I knew I looked a wreck, sweaty, and frayed. In contrast, Viveca was like the display; calm, collected, all restraint. Her black, sleek hair was pulled back like a ballerina’s, the bun tucked like a nest in the hollow of her long neck.

“Viveca?” I pointed at the couch. “Do you mind if I…?”

She nodded. “Of course, Miss Gold.” A measured shading of sympathy laced her voice. She guided my elbow as if I were infirm.

“Ohhh.” It was like sinking into a cloud. And white. So basic. So relaxing. No colors to coordinate, no confusing patterns. “L-Lovely…” I sighed.

“The finest goose down,” she said.

“And the fabric…?”

“Silk velvet.” She kneeled before me. “May I?” she asked, slipping off one of my shoes, then the other. “Rest and enjoy.”

I laid back and Viveca tucked a pillow under my knees.

I was nodding off when my purse rang. It was Brett.

“Hey, we just broke for lunch. Where are you?”

“Heaven.” I dug into my wallet and signaled to Viveca waving my American Express. “The whole set, please.”

She nodded serenely and walked to the cash register, just the slightest quickening in her step.

The furniture fit perfectly. The curse had been lifted. It was a miracle! My miracle. Once it was all assembled, I ran around and around, patting the cushions and pillows like I was playing duck-duck-goose. I hugged the moving guys and gave them each a hundred-dollar tip.

Emboldened I called Viveca and tackled the rest of our downstairs, measuring, ordering, buying everything in white. White carpeting, white tables, white chairs. I had found the magic key. White, white, white! In the coming months, I covered the empty walls hanging large black and white photographs by Ansel Adams, Herb Ritts, Helmut Newton, and Cindy Sherman. Color was way too risky. Who knew what could happen if a purple and a red ended up side-by-side? It was like organizing a dinner party. Why take a chance on seating strangers together when they might not get along?

And when Architectural Digest showed up to shoot Brett and me in our “Historic Hollywood Estate,” they complimented my “fresh, minimalist styling.”

“Jackie, can I ask you a question?” Brett asked.

We were lying in our new white upholstered bed after a long overdue session of lovemaking.

“Hmmm?” I nuzzled his chest. I yearned for another orgasm. I wrapped my legs around his thigh and squeezed hard.

“Hey, quit it. That hurts.” He propped himself up against the white headboard.

“Sorreee.” I rolled onto my stomach, took his hand, and put it between my legs. He didn’t pull away, which I took as a hopeful sign.

“Jackie, do you think my torso is out of proportion to the rest of my body?”