The Makeover by Karen Buscemi

shopping trip to select Christmas gifts for each other.
    It was the first time Camellia had been out in ages, and she couldn’t deny how good it felt to be amongst people again, especially with no more threat of paparazzi following her. “I did some research,” she explained, delicately stabbing at her Salade Niçoise. “I didn’t realize how lovely Michigan is.”
    “It really is,” Henry agreed. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier, but one of the group’s receptionists, Mary Wysocki, has a friend who recently got transferred to Atlanta, and is looking to rent out his house until the real estate market improves. It’s empty, and she says very picturesque, and it’s ours to call home for awhile.”
    Camellia set her fork down. Her forehead was creased, but she was too concerned with this new information to remember about wrinkles. “You agreed to a house without me seeing it first?”
    “Well, it’s not like we have time to go house hunting. The director of the practice wants me to start as soon as possible. Besides, it’s just a rental. Once we get our bearings, we can determine the neighborhood we like and find our own house to buy.”
    “We’re buying a house?”
    “Sure, why wouldn’t we? It’s a buyer’s market, and we can use some equity.”
    Camellia looked down at her lap. “It just sounds so...permanent.”
    Henry reached across the table, taking his wife’s hand into his own. “Honey, I’ll make you a deal. If this move doesn’t work out for us, we can come back to New York. Honest. We just have to promise that we’ll give it a chance. Will you give it a chance?”
    Camellia nodded, trying hard to remember that picture she had created of the grand house and the life of leisure. She could give it a chance. She would do it for Henry.
    After dinner, they took a cab to Barneys on Madison Avenue. Camellia was delighted to be back in one of her favorite department stores, surrounded by luxurious designer goods and happy people with platinum cards at the ready. They parted at the front doors and Camellia stayed on the first floor, heading to men’s accessories. She circled the sunglass cases, deciding that life on the water called for a very good pair of designer shades with proper UV protection. The slim, well-dressed salesman kindly extracted pair after pair, even consenting to model the different styles. She decided on a handsome aviator style by Tom Ford, experiencing only minor anxiety as the salesman placed the five-hundred-dollar order on her credit card.
    Camellia found Henry in the jewelry department, accepting a small bag with ribbon poking out the top from an older saleslady with stunning white hair. When he noticed her standing there, he dramatically pretended to stash the bag inside his overcoat. “I knew you’d be here,” she gushed. “I can smell a jewelry purchase from a mile away.”
    “Guilty,” he said, putting an arm around his wife and escorting her to the door. “But you won’t know exactly what it is until Christmas, smarty pants.”
    “Oh no, I have to wait three whole days . I think I can handle it.”
    Henry grinned. “I think you can handle a whole hell of a lot.”
     

 
     
     
     
     
    ELEVEN
     
     
    Christmas arrived the way Camellia and Henry preferred, with a light snow falling on the city, and just the two of them at home, enjoying the magical quality of the morning. They sipped French-press coffee in front of the fireplace, the presents from Barney’s set between them.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t get a tree this year,” Camellia said, leaning into a leather ottoman.
    “It’s been a rough few months,” Henry conceded. “You were hardly in the spirit, which is understandable.”
    Camellia watched the flames dancing behind the wrought-iron screen, and remembered this would be their last Christmas spent in the apartment. “I wonder if the house in Michigan has a fireplace.”
    “I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”