Cordelia carried Hattie, her three-and-a-half-year-old niece, on her shoulders as she sauntered down the hallway to the loft where Joanna would be living during her stay in Minnesota. Since it was a sublet, and Cordelia had brokered the arrangement, she’d already been in the space and knew it was comfortable and clean, although the way Tammi Bonifay had it decorated was enough to make her gag. It was the same general space as her loft—sixty by eighty feet, with fourteen-foot-high ceilings, exposed brick, and floor-to-ceiling windows on one entire wall overlooking downtown Minneapolis.
Cordelia had kept her loft space open, with tall screens dividing off separate sections. Thus, she could change it at her whim. And Cordelia had lots of whims. She had a tendency to borrow pieces of old sets from the theater’s storage garage. Since she was the creative director, nobody objected. Creative types were supposed to be eccentric, and on that score, it was Cordelia’s mission in life never to disappoint.
But her visits to the storage garage had ended when IKEA came to town. All her gay boyfriends told her she simply had to go—if she didn’t, they’d revoke her gay credentials. She was intrigued but not sold. At the time, she was in the midst of a languid, Deep South
period. Thanks to many of the props and furnishings from the Allen Grimby’s brilliant production of Tennessee Williams’s Summer and Smoke last spring, so was her loft. With fake Spanish moss dripping from the screens, frayed Orientals covering the hardwood floors, old-fashioned couches and overstuffed chairs with frilly white doilies pinned to the backs and arms, and with the scent of magnolia potpourri in the air, the loft was a study in genteel disintegration. Cordelia had even ordered a bunch of potted palms from Bachman’s. She was a bit annoyed to find that one of them was dying. But then it occurred to her that rotting vegetation was an essential part of Southern ambience. She nursed it along in its slow death and then allowed it a place of honor near the window when if finally bit the dust.
But all that changed the moment she entered IKEA. She was dazed. Mesmerized. So was Hattie. She loved playing in the children’s area while Cordelia went hunting. Cordelia honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so surprised. Not only was the furniture cheap, but it was generally well designed—if you liked Swedish modern. Which she didn’t.
But it grew on her. She was seduced by the weird names: The Hensvik bookcase, the Akurum/Lin/Jar kitchen island, the Fagelbo corner sofa, the Kvadrant panel curtain. Anno, Knopp, Lesvik, Ek-torp, Hustad, Borgholm—presumably these were the designers, unless someone had an odd sense of humor. It sounded to Cordelia like a page out of the Minneapolis phone book, only on steroids. If you wanted Scandinavia in all its functionally boring glory—and who didn’t like mass-produced sweet rolls, meatballs and gravy with lingonberry sauce, and cod?—it was right here in Bloomington, right across the street from that dreadful shrine to modern consumption, the Mall of America. Such a deal! Cordelia hated the Mall of America, but then she had to admit that she consumed, so she could hardly throw stones.
Thus Cordelia’s Deep South period ended. When she found out she had to assemble all the new furnishings herself, she had a moment of misgiving. Not only did Cordelia Thorn not haul, she did not assemble.
That’s when she got the brilliant idea to invite all the guys who’d recommended IKEA to her over to her loft for dinner. After the pizza and pinot grigio were consumed, she told them to get busy. They did. In a matter of a few hours, Cordelia was swimming in a completely new ethos.
Thus began her IKEA period.
The loft Joanna would live in, one floor down from Cordelia’s, was filled with both French provincial furnishings and tacky—though expensive—rustic country stuff. Captain’s chairs. Velvet couches. Plaid upholstered chairs. Carved wooden trout on the walls. Hutches loaded with garish country-themed plates, all faceout. Lots of pictures of Jesus were scattered around, and knicknacks to the point of psychosis. There was even a Martin Luther bobblehead, but there were no blank spaces, not even in the bathrooms. Unlike her loft, with all its new, clean lines, this one was so covered in crap that Cordelia couldn’t imagine finding another loft like it this side of the “country section” of lower hell—or east Texas.
The loft—again, unlike Cordelia’s—was divided into rooms. Two bathrooms. Three bedrooms. A large living room. A large study. Big kitchen and formal dining room. Joanna was only one person and she wouldn’t be spending that much time here. Cordelia liked the idea of having her under the same roof. It would make everything so much easier. And who knew? Maybe Joanna liked bucolic bric-a-brac, religious gewgaws, and quasi-patriotic plaster objets d’art. The only thing Joanna had seemed concerned with was the loft’s security system. Cordelia had been president of the tenants’ board for the past ten months, so she could attest to the fact that it was as good as, if not better than, any other downtown loft.
The Linden Building had originally been built as a two-story livery in the warehouse district of downtown Minneapolis. It had been constructed in the late eighteen hundreds and had housed horses and delivery wagons, which entered and left through oversized arched doorways. Cordelia thought the huge doorways were cool and should have been left the way they were. Because she herself was larger than
life—in every way—she was drawn to anything that was grand, dramatic, or excessive. But sometime in the early nineteen hundreds the doors had been bricked up and made smaller, and four more stories were added. Today, the six-story building was home to Athena’s Garden, a Greek restaurant, on the first floor; a printing company on the next two levels; with the final three floors turned into lofts with glorious views of the city or the Mississippi River, depending on which side of the building you were on.
Cordelia bounced Hattie on her shoulders as she continued down the hallway to Joanna’s loft. As she was about to slip the key in the lock, Hattie pointed to the door on the other side of the hall. “Yook,” she said, growing excited.
Cordelia turned, squinting her disgust at Faye O’Halleron. Faye was the retired owner of a hair salon in Fort Dodge, Iowa. She’d grown up there, married and divorced there, and worked at the hair salon until she’d sold it and moved to Minneapolis six years ago. She’d been living at Linden Lofts for only about a year, but already she’d weaseled her way into Cordelia’s infamous poker night. Faye was in her mid-seventies now, still a spunky old broad—a tall, flat-chested woman with short, dyed red hair and a face that looked like a road map of deep wrinkles. Faye liked to give advice, something she’d no doubt honed over decades of conversations with clients. Cordelia thought she was a hoot, but at the moment, she found her more frustrating than amusing. “Close the door, Faye. Joanna isn’t here yet.”
Faye took a drag off her cigarette. “Just checking.” She had a deep, whiskey voice, a voice that a Mafia don would have envied.
“Yeah, well, Joanna needs some privacy. Remember? We had that little chat about leaving her alone, at least for the first few days.”
“I’m not gonna bother her,” muttered Faye, stepping farther out into the hall, a pissed-off look on her face. “Jeez, you must think everyone in this building is some pathetic star fucker. I’ve met my share of celebrities in my time, you know. I know how to act. Did I ever tell you about the time I gave Debra Winger a haircut?”
“Yes,” said Cordelia, trying to sound patient. “Look, I just don’t want people descending on Joanna as soon as she walks in the door. Who she chooses to make friends with is up to her. I’ll be happy to introduce you, but give her a little space, okay? We clear on that?”
“I was just looking. A gal can look, can’t she?”
“Hi, Faye,” said Hattie with a shy little wave.
“Hi yourself,” replied Faye. Her grin was lopsided. “You’re as cute as a bug, you know that?”
Hattie’s face puckered. “I’m not a bug!”
“It’s an expression, Hatts,” said Cordelia, patting her leg. “It just means you’re sweet.” She glanced at Faye. Out of the side of her mouth she whispered, “She’s into a very literal idiom at the moment.”
Hattie gave a big nod. “Yup. Sweet. Yike strawberries.” Like all true Thorns, she wasn’t plagued by self-doubt.
“Remember what I said. You ever need a babysitter—”
Cordelia held up a jewel-encrusted hand. “I’ve got you on the list. Between Hattie’s live-in nanny and me, we can usually cover everything, but I’ll keep you in mind.”
“I love little girls. Don’t forget.” Faye fixed her eyes on the floor for a second, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth, then turned her back to Cordelia. “Yeah. Well. Gotta go. The Price Is Right is on.” She slipped back inside and shut the door.
Lifting Hattie off her shoulders, Cordelia entered the loft. She wanted to give the place one final look-see just to make sure everything was in order. Fresh linens. Fresh towels. Cordelia had already stocked the kitchen with the bare necessities—fresh-roasted coffee beans from Dunn Bros, a slice of double-cream Brie from Surdyk’s, a loaf of Asiago pepper bread and two baguettes from Turtle Bakery, a dozen organic eggs and a large lump of brown sugar–smoked salmon from the Wedge, a quart of fresh OJ from Lunds, a pint of red pepper mascarpone and an antipasto salad from Broders, and for a treat, a dense, fudgy Finlandia Torte from Taste of Scandinavia. Cordelia figured these, and a few other essentials, were enough to tide Joanna over until morning.
“What is this pyace?” Hattie asked reverently. Today, Hattie was dressed in a long black velvet dress and bright pink slippers. At three-and-a-half, she was already a budding Goth—but with a few unresolved color issues.
“This is where Auntie Joanna is staying,” said Cordelia.
“I yuv this pyace!” exclaimed Hattie, turbocharging over to a rack of cheap colored glass water goblets.
“No touching, okay?”
Before she could begin checking out the loft, the phone rang. Rushing into the kitchen, she picked up the receiver. It was a delivery guy downstairs wanting to come up with some flowers. Cordelia buzzed him in. At the same time, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hattie climb up on one of the dining room chairs, pull her bubble gum out of her mouth, and plop it down on the wood tabletop.
“Hatts! Stop!” The interior wasn’t exactly child-friendly.
Sprinting across the room, she reached the table just as Hattie squished the gum flat with the palm of her hand. “What did I tell you about gum? It belongs in your mouth.”
“Or in my hair,” added Hattie knowingly.
As Cordelia finished peeling the gum off, the doorbell rang.
“Coming,” she called, depositing the sticky wad in a wastebasket.
When she opened the door, the delivery guy asked her to sign for the package. “You Joanna Kasimir?” he asked, cocking an eye at her.
“Yes,” said Cordelia, scribbling her name.
“The actress?”
“What do you think?” she snarled.
“I think I’m leaving,” he said, turning and walking away.
Cordelia glanced at the gray-and-orange paper the flowers came wrapped in and decided it was a tasteless florist. She looked around the room for someplace to set it. Hattie was now under the dining room table.
“It’s beau-ti-ful down here!” She motioned for Cordelia to climb under with her.
“Hattie, do the math. Auntie Cordelia won’t fit under there. Now come out this minute. I’m counting.” She set the package on an end table, then changed her mind and moved it to the floor behind one of the hideous chain-saw sculptures.