LOS ANGELES: December, 2001 (Part 2)

Entertaining. A whole new ballgame for William.

I wasn't kidding when I suggested this living together business might be invasive. I had furniture re-covered and new dishes stacked in the cupboards. My cookbooks were lined up, ready for action. Pots dangled, wine glasses sparkled, and candles glowed. The sounds of jazz filled our rooms. Tiny lights twinkled over the deck.

When the construction was done, we had raced from one room to another, admiring the new look. When we awoke after our first night, we had looked at the sunlight pouring through the French door in our bedroom. It's like waking up in a bed and breakfast, William said. Except we don't have to pay the bill and leave.

We were in our house.

We had added a new bathroom with a large clawfoot bathtub. Because William and I are on the short side, we used it as others might use a hot tub. At the end of a hard day, we filled it with hot water and bubbles, climbed in and shared thoughts, worries and ideas.

I'd been creatively sated remodeling the house and preparing for dinner parties, but now what?

Do whatever you want, William offered. Quit that stupid TV show.

I can’t. It's my income.

We can get by on my salary. Quit.

At the time, I was a dialogue coach on a kids' television show. It introduced a new cast of young actors every year and the executive producer had hired me to hone acting their skills and teach on-set etiquette. That producer, however, seemed to be the only one who liked having me there, and over the years my value deteriorated as one director in particular made my job near impossible.

This director needed a lot of control and didn't want me talking to "his actors." As my job was all about talking to actors, our situation became untenable. My sleeping hours were jam-packed with work-related nightmares. I hung on because I simply could not imagine quitting. Plus, in addition to the income, the company covered my health insurance.

So I didn't quit.

We curled up in front of a roaring blaze in the fireplace, our faces lit by red and green lights on the Christmas tree. We spent New Year's Eve with lasagna, red wine and our annual viewing of "The Godfather." We had a dinner party on New Year's Day, toasting each other from across the table. We were grateful to be finished with the construction and wished for our country to mend its wounds as we moved into 2002.

With my head full of renovation ideas, I developed an addiction to the Home & Garden Television network. Oh God, look at that kitchen. William called HGTV "porn for women." And I was hooked.

I was particularly enthralled with a show called "Landscapers' Challenge," where a designer and crew land in a homeowner's yard and whip it into a wonderland in twenty-seven minutes. We should have that, I decided, and wrote an email to the show's producers, hoping they would consider our lackluster backyard for a future episode.

This seemingly trivial act cranked open an unexpected gulf in our home. One of those didn't-see-it-coming moments that can rock a foundation swifter than an earthquake.