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Authors: juliet blackwell
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wall of knobs” in the San Francisco Design Center.
I was almost to the main floor when I heard something.
A moaning sound?
Relief washed over me when I realized it was accompanied by the crackle of a baby monitor. Katenka was in the dining room, the receiver clipped on to her belt. The “moaning” I thought I had heard was simply Quinn, lulling himself to sleep with a cooing sound. My imagination was running rampant.
Katenka stood next to the horsehair settee, looking down at it.
“Katenka?”
As I approached her, she spoke without looking up. “Emile was going to reupholster this. Who will do it now?”
“I’m sure we can find another upholsterer,” I said, wondering why she was focusing on this, of all things. “This place won’t be ready for nice furniture for a while yet.”
She seemed to shake it off. “You are right.”
“Hey, look what we just found up in the attic.” I held up the old key ring.
She wrinkled her nose. “Is rusty.”
“True.” It always amazed me when people didn’t get excited around such discoveries. This was the fun of old houses, the traces people left behind. In my time I’ve found everything from perfume bottles to personal papers to old celluloid collars. The homeowners rarely wanted to keep them, which was one reason my bedroom was beginning to look like a museum. Most of us in the historical renovation biz become rabid amateur historians . . . sometimes exhibiting a little hoarder mentality when it comes to old stuff.
“We were going to try the keys in some of the old locks, see if they work,” I said. “Or, if you’d rather, we could just change out all the old locks for new, as we’d originally decided to do.”
“New is better, I think.”
“So you don’t want the keys?”
“Why would I?”
“As a memento?”
She just stared at me. I was going to take that as a no. On to the next order of business.
“I’d like to get a final decision from you on the paint colors so we can order supplies and be ready to go next week.”
She held out her hand for the samples. Traditionally, houses of the Victorian era were covered in wallpaper from head to toe, in a riotous blend of patterns and designs that extended onto the ceilings. Modern sensibilities tended toward a simpler palette of colors. Still, because most Victorians feature high ceilings, ample windows, and often more than a foot of wood trim at base and crown, in addition to wainscoting, they can handle strong interior colors.
Last week I had painted three-by-three-foot patches of different paint hues on the walls and evaluated how they looked under all kinds of conditions: mellow pink morning light, harsh afternoon sun, a gray foggy day, incandescent bulbs in the evening. I had narrowed the color palette down to creams for most of the painted woodwork, a saffron yellow or wine red for the dining room walls, a grayish violet for the front sitting room, and everything from sage green to buff caramel for the bedrooms. For Quinn’s room, I had chosen a mellow green-blue shade that would provide a nice backdrop for his shelves of books and toys. All Katenka had to do was agree.
She flipped through the samples without enthusiasm, pausing on the ones marked with a sticky note.
“Is fine,” she said, listless.
“You sure? If you don’t like it once it’s up, we’ll have to repaint, which means a change order, which puts us over budget.” I’m always careful to warn clients of potential cost overruns. Usually they ignore me until they get the bill.
“Is fine,” she repeated, signing her name to the paint schedule.
“We also need to go to the Design Center for knobs and tiles, make a few decisions. Is there a good day this week?”
Katenka sighed. “Friday?”
I checked my schedule. “Great. Friday it is. Is late afternoon okay? That way I can send the men home with their paychecks, and you and I won’t have to rush back.”
“Okay. I get my friend Ivana to take baby. Make it
I was almost to the main floor when I heard something.
A moaning sound?
Relief washed over me when I realized it was accompanied by the crackle of a baby monitor. Katenka was in the dining room, the receiver clipped on to her belt. The “moaning” I thought I had heard was simply Quinn, lulling himself to sleep with a cooing sound. My imagination was running rampant.
Katenka stood next to the horsehair settee, looking down at it.
“Katenka?”
As I approached her, she spoke without looking up. “Emile was going to reupholster this. Who will do it now?”
“I’m sure we can find another upholsterer,” I said, wondering why she was focusing on this, of all things. “This place won’t be ready for nice furniture for a while yet.”
She seemed to shake it off. “You are right.”
“Hey, look what we just found up in the attic.” I held up the old key ring.
She wrinkled her nose. “Is rusty.”
“True.” It always amazed me when people didn’t get excited around such discoveries. This was the fun of old houses, the traces people left behind. In my time I’ve found everything from perfume bottles to personal papers to old celluloid collars. The homeowners rarely wanted to keep them, which was one reason my bedroom was beginning to look like a museum. Most of us in the historical renovation biz become rabid amateur historians . . . sometimes exhibiting a little hoarder mentality when it comes to old stuff.
“We were going to try the keys in some of the old locks, see if they work,” I said. “Or, if you’d rather, we could just change out all the old locks for new, as we’d originally decided to do.”
“New is better, I think.”
“So you don’t want the keys?”
“Why would I?”
“As a memento?”
She just stared at me. I was going to take that as a no. On to the next order of business.
“I’d like to get a final decision from you on the paint colors so we can order supplies and be ready to go next week.”
She held out her hand for the samples. Traditionally, houses of the Victorian era were covered in wallpaper from head to toe, in a riotous blend of patterns and designs that extended onto the ceilings. Modern sensibilities tended toward a simpler palette of colors. Still, because most Victorians feature high ceilings, ample windows, and often more than a foot of wood trim at base and crown, in addition to wainscoting, they can handle strong interior colors.
Last week I had painted three-by-three-foot patches of different paint hues on the walls and evaluated how they looked under all kinds of conditions: mellow pink morning light, harsh afternoon sun, a gray foggy day, incandescent bulbs in the evening. I had narrowed the color palette down to creams for most of the painted woodwork, a saffron yellow or wine red for the dining room walls, a grayish violet for the front sitting room, and everything from sage green to buff caramel for the bedrooms. For Quinn’s room, I had chosen a mellow green-blue shade that would provide a nice backdrop for his shelves of books and toys. All Katenka had to do was agree.
She flipped through the samples without enthusiasm, pausing on the ones marked with a sticky note.
“Is fine,” she said, listless.
“You sure? If you don’t like it once it’s up, we’ll have to repaint, which means a change order, which puts us over budget.” I’m always careful to warn clients of potential cost overruns. Usually they ignore me until they get the bill.
“Is fine,” she repeated, signing her name to the paint schedule.
“We also need to go to the Design Center for knobs and tiles, make a few decisions. Is there a good day this week?”
Katenka sighed. “Friday?”
I checked my schedule. “Great. Friday it is. Is late afternoon okay? That way I can send the men home with their paychecks, and you and I won’t have to rush back.”
“Okay. I get my friend Ivana to take baby. Make it
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