With our Book Club series, we hand over the proverbial mic to our Experts—letting them share their work, thought process, and best tips, all in their own words. The following is an excerpt from Alfredo Paredes’ new book, At Home, published this month with Rizzoli.

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Like so many other families, we had an impulse to reevaluate our living situation in New York City when the pandemic hit.

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We were lucky to have our Shelter Island place as an escape from the virus, and during the extended time we spent there we saw how much happier and more comfortable we all were than we'd been during the months prior, in our East Village apartment. The impact of simply having the space to spread out a bit both indoors and out was eye-opening. We clearly needed more room.

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What immediately became clear was that I inevitably found myself drawn to English-style houses built in the 1920s. They tend to feel very elegant yet somehow ineffably masculine as well. And despite often being large, their interiors are usually well proportioned with an easy flow from room to room. This house had all of that, though what caught my eye initially was the fact that it had been designed by Harrie T. Lindeberg, an architect I’ve long admired. We arranged a viewing for the next day.

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Knowing my weakness for plaster walls, arched doorways, and casement windows, as soon as we walked in Brad turned to me and said, “I guess we’re moving.”

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The place also looks like something you'd see in an old Hollywood movie, which is always inspiring to me. And miraculously, all the original details were still intact. From the outset, I loved the façade’s roofline, the arched entry in the brick portico, the circular motor court, and the wide staircase running graciously from the entry hall to the second floor. I remember standing at the base of the stairs marveling at how such a big, formal house could also immediately feel so embracing.

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During my decades working at Ralph Lauren we actually looked to Lindeberg’s aesthetic often for inspiration. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that I had studied images of this very house over the years while working on various projects and installations. One thing I do know is that it reminded me in certain ways of our East Village apartment, though on a much bigger scale, so it felt very familiar. I guess that explains Brad’s reaction on that first visit.

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In reimagining the place, I definitely wanted to keep the sense that it was from another era, to respect the parts that alluded to history and made it feel established and solid but to avoid making it feel like a period piece. Take that front entry hall—instead of setting it up to be a static space you simply walk through on your way to somewhere else, we made sure it was a place where we might actually want to spend time and that would hold up to heavy use. For instance, our kids do a weekly karate class there with a few of their friends.

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Similarly, the living room is this very generous, elegantly proportioned room that you step down into to indicate a transition to a reception space. We use it in that way at times, of course, and love the heightened formality of the room, but by furnishing it with a wide and pillowy sofa and club chairs I ensured it would also be a comfy place to hang out when we weren't entertaining—in fact, that sofa has become my favorite quiet spot to take a nap. We wanted to be certain that in reimagining the house it would fit the realities of our lifestyle and not be restricted by how people lived in 1930.

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The biggest change we made was moving the kitchen. The original kitchen was pretty uninteresting and obviously designed at a time when you would have had staff making your meals, so the owners probably never set foot in there. It clearly wasn't Lindeberg’s highest design priority; now it functions beautifully as a pantry and secondary kitchen instead.

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This tied in well to solving the riddle of how to use what we call “the great room.” The space was conceived as an artist’s studio for the original owner. A soaring, barrel-vaulted ceiling easily makes this room the most dramatic in the house, and therefore one that should be used daily. But we already had a beautiful living room and it felt too vast to work either as a study or TV room. The solution was to move the principal kitchen there. The idea of a kitchen-cum-family room where you can cook, eat, and gather to talk, read, or watch TV is a very American, twenty-first-century concept that makes a lot of practical sense. It also shifts the activity center of the house to what is arguably its most appealing space. Come by most any evening and that’s where you're likely to find us.

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Adapting the formal dining room to fit how we actually live also took thought. It’s a huge space, so any dining table large enough to fill it would have needed many leaves—always a hassle to install and remove. I ended up designing a sixteen-foot-long dining table in quarter-sawn oak, which is big enough to fill the room proportionally, yet managed not to feel overly formal. We’ve had some great, fun dinners there—including Christmas when we hosted eighteen (without running short on counter space, as we did in the East Village). Large rooms also mean plenty of wall space; to make this one feel inviting and cohesive, I ended up installing a beautiful scenic wallpaper, something that’s a bit of a stylistic departure for me.

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I certainly didn’t want any of the changes I made to compete with the inherent beauty of the architecture. That’s not to say I didn’t alter a few details: I added arched doorframes to create a sense of continuity between rooms, raised a few others that seemed too low, and added doors at either end of the second-floor hall to make it feel cozier and more private—all things aimed at making it feel like an inviting and well-appointed country residence. And we also ended up giving the house a new name, Cocuyo, which means “firefly” in Spanish—a nod to both my Cuban heritage and the way the house’s leaded-glass windowpanes twinkle at night.

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After almost two years, I realize the move here has been everything I imagined and exactly what we needed as a family. When I pull into Locust Valley on the train, get into my car, drive through the little town, and into our driveway, what I feel is contentment. That reaction tells me I made the right choice.

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Order Alfredo’s new book for more inspiration, or book a consultation with Alfredo to get personalized advice for your space.