Caretaker's Paradise

I'm selling a part of my past. My realtor lists it as a cozy, 3.5 room, garden style, top floor-end unit, overlooking a courtyard in North White Plains. When I bought the apartment 17 years ago, I felt like it was a small corner of paradise. And in a way, it turned out to be just that. As a 39 year old single woman, I wanted to put down Westchester roots that would anchor me, and end the nomadic behavior that had littered my years since high school with addresses in three different states.

I painted the walls a cream color, muffled my footsteps with mauve wall-to-wall carpeting and created a sunny oasis where my green plants, and I, flourished. I hung artwork everywhere, except for one wall of the small dining alcove which served as my writing area. There, I hung pictures of loved ones to remind me of my past and inspire me to forge a new future. Each evening, after a full day working in a consulting firm, I booted up my computer and embarked on my dream of writing the great American novel.

Time passed. Amidst visits from my sisters, nieces and cousins, ceiling-high Christmas trees, holiday dinners, bouts of writer's block and bursts of creative inspiration, I finally completed my novel. It's said that first novels are always about the author. Mine sure was. A literary agent said it read like a romance novel that broke all the rules of the genre. I put the manuscript in a drawer and began anew. This time, I based the story on my parents' lives. When it was finished, agents and editors suggested that I had written enough material for four novels. "Tell one story at a time," they said. So, once again, I set off on another creative journey.

Midway through, I fell in love with a wonderful man, Bob, who asked me to marry him. "When I finish this novel," I said. He came to live with me. In the next glorious months, I learned that happiness interferes with creativity. I was far too busy living to seek the solitude that writing requires. One evening during dinner in our favorite restaurant, Bob said, "Get out your calendar and pick a date. We have to get married."

"Why?" I asked. "Are you pregnant?" He smiled faintly. "I told you I'd marry you when I finish this novel," I said.

"You're writing too slowly," he answered. " I want to marry you now. I won't stop you from writing. You know that."

Two months later, we married. Even though my little paradise soon began to feel cramped as we acquired the accouterments of married life, the economic downturn of the '90's kept us tethered there. Despite the constraints, we managed to entertain family and friends, and cultivate a strong marital relationship that encompassed all the wedding vows we had exchanged. With Bob's encouragement, I even managed to complete another novel.

After a few years, our finances improved and we found the perfect house -- a new paradise that would be ours together, not just mine, Bob said. I was enthralled to finally have a writing room of my own -- one with a door! I lobbied to rent my old paradise rather than sell. "When the market for co-ops gets better, then we'll sell," I assured Bob. In reality, mid-life first marriages produce uneasy wives; I wanted to keep the apartment in case our marriage didn't work out. Bob's prompt agreement made me love him all the more.

My marriage and writing continued to flourish in our new paradise. This past year, when the market for co-ops suddenly rebounded, I signed a sales agreement with a friend's real estate agency. Before I could correct the agent's draft of the Multiple Listing Service, he called with a buyer offering $3,000 less than my asking price.

"Egads! So soon?" I cried. "It's only been two days." Bob urged me to negotiate, but I refused. "If he wants my paradise, he'll have to pay my price," I insisted, hoping he wouldn't. The following day, the agent called back and said jubilantly, "He's agreed to your full asking price."
Reluctantly, I accepted the offer. Bob reminds me that we are all just caretakers of the houses where we live. We come and go, but the houses remain. I hope my old paradise fulfills its new caretaker's dreams. It sure fulfilled mine.