On the first morning in our new showhome, Candler slept until noon. I, on a deadline for the photographer, rose at 7 a.m., dug through 575 boxes in the garage to find the one marked “Urgent – Open first.” Pulling out my espresso maker and necessary paraphernalia, I hurried off to the kitchen to get my morning jolt, only to discover I had no milk. Not to be deterred, I changed into sweats and walked two blocks to the nearest Starbucks. Once I’d downed my quad cappuccino, I sprung into action.
I needed a quick fix to assure myself I could summit the decorating mountain. Sitting at base camp and acclimating was out of the question. Pulling art from crates and carrying it to each respective room gave me an immediate sense of accomplishment. My ingenuity was called upon when it came to the art of the keeping room. The enormous oil I had purchased from a gallery in Italy was larger than my entire body. Wrestling it out of the crate wasn’t the challenge, sliding it across the garage floor on two blue packing blankets was a cinch, getting it across the brick pavers on the patio that separated the garage and the house proved more challenging. By the time I got to the keeping room, I realized I was going to need a crane to lift it over the mantle. I glanced at my watch. It was already 9:30. I rested the painting against the face of the fireplace and trotted up to the bedroom for assistance. Candler, sleeping like a dead man, lay sprawled in the middle of the bed, a lone black sock covering his eyes.
“Candler,” I said shaking him gently. No answer.
“Candler,” I said a little louder, “It’s 9:30.”
“I didn’t sleep well,” he mumbled.
“Neither did I,” I said. “But I’ve got to get the house set up and I could really use your help.”
“I’m too tired,” he said, rolling onto his side and adjusting the sock to black out the light.
I sat on the side of the bed contemplating his exhaustion and my need for help. Letting out a sigh I jumped off the edge and made my way downstairs alone. I turned my attention to decorating the bookshelves on each side of the fireplace in the keeping room. And so the morning unfolded, me working alone, unpacking box after box, locating lamps, finding their proper shades and fitting the finials.
By noon I’d made my way back to the master bedroom.
“I’m hungry,” Candler said from underneath the bed sheets.
“So am I,” I replied. “Why don’t you get up and go get us something to eat.”
Refreshed, he threw on running shorts and a t-shirt and headed toward the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To get food,” he said.
“But where?” I asked.
“I could go to the grocery store and get sandwiches,” he said.
“You know I can’t eat bread,” I said.
“I could call Pizza Hut,” he said.
“Yeast, cheese, bread,” I said.
“Do you have any cash on you?” he asked.
I dug through my purse and produced a twenty. He turned to leave.
“What are you getting me?” I asked.
“I’ll figure out something,” he said as he bounded down the stairs, full of energy.
By the time Candler returned, I had unpacked fifteen hanging clothes boxes. The elevator, the size of one found in a tiny European hotel, was too small to fit even one of our enormous wardrobe boxes so I had carried each load up the long staircase to the master bedroom. I was famished. Digging through the grocery bag, I discovered a submarine sandwich.
“Where’s my food?” I asked.
“In the bag,” he said, plopping himself down on the couch and putting his feet on my new $1500 glass-top coffee table.
“Feet off,” I said.
He lifted his long runner’s legs and planted his blue and white Nike’s on the red Persian carpet. Holding up the bag I said, “There’s only a sandwich.”
“That’s it,” he said, stuffing his mouth with liquorice.
“I thought we agreed no sandwiches,” I replied.
“You can take the bread off,” he said through his candy-coated lips.
“If I take the bread off all that’s left is a couple of pieces of meat,” I said.
Candler chewed on his liquorice like a cow grazing on itscud. I shook my head at his lack of consideration for my needs. Instantly Compassionate Violet kicked-in convincing Irritated Violet that her new husband had been too tired to think of anything that fit her dietary needs. Independent Violet told me I could use a break and to go get food for myself.
“Did you have a sandwich?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said.
“Are you still hungry?” I asked.
“You don’t want it?” he said eagerly.
“No, you can have it,” Gracious Violet said.
Candler strode over to the counter and grabbed the sandwich over my shoulder. I could smell the liquorices on his breath. Plopping himself back on the sofa, he unwrapped the sandwich with abandon.
“Please don’t eat on the red silk sofa,” I said.
In that moment my logic, intuition and psychic ability utter failed me. As I mounted the stairs, Intuitive Violet tapped me on the shoulder. I paused on the fifth tread, trying to listen. If Candler loved you he’d be concerned about your welfare, she said. She sounded like Judgmental Violet, so I shrugged her off. I didn’t like Judgmental Violet and tried hard not to give her room in my life. I decided to take the stairs by twos, the extra effort drowned out her voice. If I had been paying attention, I would have realized that my lone unpacking warrior act and my husband’s lack of thought for my welfare was a serious flag on the play of our relationship; but trained to be a problem solver to the core, I leaped up the stairs, grabbed my purse and headed for the door to buy my own lunch, just like the little red hen I was.
A string of events had begun to mount that was to turn the tide of my life and send me into the eye of the perfect storm. But the Violet who had been well versed in denial and given exhaustive lessons in how to ignore her own feelings was running the show.