by Kwan, Kevin
On the first terrace, they encountered a manicured lawn where a row of four-poster Balinese beds faced the sea, with white linen canopies artfully draped above each bed.
“This is where Geraldine gets her shiatsu massage every afternoon,” Mordecai noted. “The lower level of this villa is a state-of-the-art spa where the Murphys maintain a battalion of therapists.”
“Their personal Aman resort!” Charlotte commented.
Paloma Ortiz shook her head in dismay. “I look at those sun beds and all I can think of is melanoma.”
Arriving at the next terrace above, the group passed a magnificent koi pond that meandered along the curves of the cliff. Water lilies floated on the surface, while hundreds of exotic carp undulated hypnotically in the waters below.
“These are Tom’s prized koi. He has a full-time marine biologist who makes sure that these koi are fat and healthy. See the white-and-orange one over there with the head that looks like a deformed tangerine? A representative for the imperial family of Japan offered the Murphys $1.5 million for that fish,” Mordecai proudly announced.
“I sure hope it doesn’t get picked off by a seagull,” Olivia commented.
The Sultanah peered down at the fish, looking unimpressed. “My grandfather loved koi and kept them in gigantic urns back at the old palace, but I prefer golden arowanas.”
Undeterred by the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm for the decorative koi, Mordecai stood on the steps in front of a pair of massive carved bronze doors, cleared his throat, and raised his voice: “Your Majesty, ladies, and gentlemen, we are about to enter one of the greatest houses on the Mediterranean coast still remaining in private hands. In fact, it can be argued that along with La Leopolda in Villefranche-sur-Mer, once the residence of my dear friend Lily Safra, and the Château de l’Horizon in Vallarius, once owned by Prince Aly Khan, who was a dear friend of my father’s, Villa Lachowski is arguably the finest historic waterfront villa in the world. The original structure was built in 1928 by a local family, and it was far more modest—a beach bungalow, really. But when the legendary director Francesco Lachowski acquired it in 1957, he greatly expanded the property. With his discerning eye and access to some of the finest artisans working on his film productions, he was able to create his private Xanadu here.”
“Didn’t Graham Greene stay here?” Auden asked.
“Yes, the villa is indeed famous because some of the most legendary people visited—Greene, Callas, Nureyev, von Karajan, they were all guests here.”
Olivia murmured into Charlotte’s ear, “I wish we had some tequila. We could take a shot every time Mordecai says the word ‘legendary.’”
“I’d be drunk already,” Charlotte replied.
Entering the grand foyer, Mordecai continued. “Now, as we proceed through this imposing threshold into the drawing room, I want you to note the peculiar architectural homages to Sir John Soane that are evident throughout …”
Lucie admired her surroundings but did not have much interest in the “peculiar architectural homages to Sir John Soane.” She wished that Mordecai would allow them to enjoy the place without his commentary, as her eyes wandered from the de Chirico painting commanding the mantelpiece to the grid of Agnes Martin drawings along a wall and the enormous Cy Twombly canvas casually propped up on a long wooden bench.
“The art’s not too shabby, is it?” Auden commented.
“Not too shabby at all!” Lucie said, still astonished that she was standing just inches away from a Twombly.
“Didn’t you promise to show me some of your artwork?” Auden asked.
“Oh, sure. When we get back to the hotel this afternoon, I can show you some pictures on my iPad.”
“It’s a date!” Auden said.
As they proceeded from the drawing room into the library, Mordecai began methodically pointing out all the most expensive first editions and rare manuscripts in the Murphys’ collection. Lucie’s mind drifted for a moment until she noticed Paloma, the sister with the pixie-cut hair and more dramatically plucked eyebrows, mouthing something to her.
“Pardon me?” Lucie said.
“I said you have a neck like a swan.” Paloma smiled.
“Really?”
“Yes, it’s long like Audrey Hepburn’s. So beautiful!”
“Er … thank you,” Lucie said, as always feeling a bit awkward whenever someone paid her a compliment.
“You must get it from your mother?”
“Hmm, I guess. I’ve never thought about it, but yes, my mother does have quite a long neck.”
“Where is she from?” Paloma continued to probe.
“Seattle.”
“I meant is she Chinese, Japanese, Korean?”
“Oh, sorry. Yes, she’s of Chinese ancestry, but she’s third-generation Asian American. Her grandfather was one of the very first Chinese students to graduate from Yale with a medical degree,” Lucie added, not wishing these ladies to think her mother was fresh off the boat.
“How interesting,” Paloma said, clearly not as curious about Lucie’s family history as she was with her 23andMe results.
Mercedes jumped into the conversation. “And your father, what is his ancestry?”
“English, Scottish, and Swedish,” Lucie replied as patiently as she could. Why was it that only other Asians interrogated her about her background?
“You must thank your mother for your beautiful features, then. I thank mine every morning when I look in the mirror. It’s because of my Chinese blood that I haven’t needed a face-lift yet!”fn1 Mercedes giggled.
“You’re part Chinese?” Lucie asked.
“Yes, of course. My sister and I are torna atrás—we have Chinese, Spanish, and Filipino blood. You know, most Filipinos have mixed blood. We are all mestizos, like you.”
“I had no idea.”
“Now, tell me, dear, how long have you been modeling?”
Lucie laughed out loud at the preposterousness of the idea. “Me? I’ve never modeled.”
Mercedes gave Paloma a look before turning back to Lucie. “Really? All this time we thought you were that girl in the new Chanel perfume ads.”
“I swear it isn’t me.”
“It sure looks like you! Now, why don’t you model? Our cousin Kris owns the top talent agency in Manila, and she would recruit you in a heartbeat!”
“We should also recruit that one coming down the stairs,” Paloma said, gesturing.
Lucie turned around and saw George Zao bounding down the marble steps, followed by his mother. It was the first time she had seen him since Casa Malaparte. Before she could help herself, she found herself smiling at him and then almost immediately wanted to kick herself. Why did she grin at him like that? She felt like a total idiot.
“Rosemary, George, what a surprise!” Auden said cheerily as he clapped George heartily on the back.
Mordecai gave the late arrivals a quick once-over. Who on earth was this woman, and what possessed her to think she could join his group wearing those flamingo-pink sweatpants? “Madame, I don’t seem to recall you signing up for my tour?” he said haughtily.
Olivia was about to spring to their defense, but Rosemary gave Mordecai a confused look. “We didn’t sign up for anything—we were here for breakfast.”
“You’re friends with the Murphys?” Olivia asked, almost smirking.
“Yes, old friends. Tom and my husband owned a company together.”
Mordecai’s interest was instantly piqued. “Oh, really? Which one?”
“I can’t remember … was it the oil company? The refineries? No, it was the shipping company. Yes, they owned a fleet of tankers together, the largest fleet in the Pacific.”
Mordecai did an abrupt one-eighty and he smiled at Rosemary solicitously. “Well, Mrs. Chao—”
“It’s Zao,” Rosemary corrected.
“Yes, Mrs. Zao, I was just at the start of my historical tour. Geraldine might have told you that I was the one who found this villa for them. You are most welcome t
o join us …”
“Oh, we don’t need a tour. We’ve stayed here many times; this is like a second home for us. Gerri insisted that I try her new float tank after breakfast, and now I’m going down for a Thai massage on the beach,” Rosemary declared before padding off with the ease of a longtime houseguest. George followed after her, and as he passed Lucie, he murmured in that low, quiet voice, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Lucie said, feeling the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks.
CHAPTER TEN
The High Garden at Villa Lachowski
Capri, Italy
The group had just finished Mordecai’s encyclopedic tour of every precious nook and cranny of the remarkable property, and for their patience they were rewarded with a sumptuous lunch held on the enchanting terracotta-tiled terrace, where wisteria vines wrapped around every column and the most arresting view of Positano stretched out before them like a perfectly retouched postcard.
“I’m having sensory overload. I’m not sure where to look—at the breathtaking view, at these adorable hand-painted majolica plates, or at this glorious feast!” Charlotte said as she sat down in her cushioned wicker chair, assessing the meal on the table with approval. Along with a chilled lobster and saffron bisque and a classic Caesar salad featuring cured Amalfi anchovies, the Murphys’ chef also brought out huge platters of strozzapreti tossed in a creamy sea urchin sauce and a delectably light mortadella, pistachio, and lemon pizza.
Tucking into her pasta, Mercedes whispered rather loudly to everyone on her side of the table, “I now know more than I ever imagined about neoclassical Piedmontese furniture.”
“It could have been worse,” Paloma said with a slight giggle.
“Really? I couldn’t possibly see how,” Olivia interjected.
“That Mrs. Zao could have come along on the tour,” Mercedes whispered.
“Are you not a fan?” Charlotte said with a slight smirk.
Paloma pursed her lips for a moment, before replying, “She is perfectly lovely. I just wouldn’t want to be on a two-hour tour with her, that’s all.”
Mercedes waved her hand in front of her sister’s face dismissively. “Oh, Paloma, stop being so polite. We just weren’t impressed by the way Mrs. Zao bragged about her husband’s companies. Not impressed at all!”
“Was it really bragging? She was asked the question by Mordecai, and she simply gave him an answer,” Olivia countered.
“It was the manner in which she said it. Did she have to boast that it was the largest fleet of tankers on the planet? I mean, our family founded businesses in the Philippines that go back to the eighteen hundreds, but we never would have mentioned it quite like that. My mother would have given us a tight slap!” Mercedes said.
“Mother could have taught that woman a thing or two about subtlety! Her style is just a bit too Hong Kong for my taste,” Paloma sniffed.
“How do you define ‘too Hong Kong’?” Charlotte asked as she tore off a slice of the pizza and carefully removed every bit of mortadella and cheese with her knife and fork.
Paloma pondered for a moment. “There’s a certain showy quality. The colors they choose to wear, and how they don’t mind being seen dripping in jewels at all hours of the day.”
“You call it showy, I call it flair. I suppose I have a penchant for extravagant, eccentric style. Mrs. Zao reminds me of Anna Piaggi or the Marchesa Casati,” Olivia said.
“Well, you should have seen the rubies she wore to go swimming yesterday. My jeweler would have had a heart attack!”
“And that son of hers, the silent one. No doubt he’s handsome, but have you ever heard him speak? It’s quite odd,” Mercedes mused.
“I think he’s just a little full of himself,” Charlotte commented.
“You know I read somewhere that beautiful men lack a conscience,” Mercedes interjected.
“Oh, what rubbish! He’s perfectly nice to me. I just don’t think he’s one for small talk,” Olivia said.
Lucie soaked in the ladies’ banter but said nothing. She couldn’t help but notice the Sultanah seated at the other end of the table, being fawned over by Mordecai. Even though she was wearing a blindingly colorful caftan and dripping in jewels, the Ortiz sisters didn’t seem to disapprove of her.
After lunch, the group dispersed to pursue various pampering distractions. The Sultanah and the Ortiz sisters treated themselves to the warm goat’s milk and honey manicures being offered in the spa (with Mordecai tagging along, of course), Auden went for a dip in the waters off the villa’s private beach, and Charlotte, Olivia, and Lucie decided to take advantage of the sun beds on the lower terrace. The Balinese beds were situated at the perfect vantage point under an alleé of tall umbrella pines, allowing the harsh afternoon sun to filter gently down to them while the crosswinds blew a cool sea breeze.
Lying on her belly and staring out at the azure waters from her plush silk mattress, Charlotte let out a deep sigh. “This is absolute bliss!”
“I’ve always found billionaires to be a miserable lot, but once in a while I think it might not be that bad to have enough cash to afford a place like this,” Olivia said with her eyes closed as she savored the sunlight on her face.
“You know, I almost married one with a place not too different from this,” Charlotte murmured lazily.
Lucie stared at her cousin curiously. “Really?”
“Yes. Raphaël. His parents had a villa in Cap-Ferrat, and we spent a few heavenly weeks there the summer after I graduated from Smith.”
“That was your hot summer romance, wasn’t it? We’ve all had at least one,” Olivia remarked.
“What happened?” Lucie asked, having a hard time imagining Charlotte engaged in a hot summer romance with anyone.
“My parents happened. Raphaël proposed and wanted me to move to London with him, where he was about to start a job at Rothschild’s. But Mom and Dad didn’t approve. And neither did Granny. They all thought I was much too young and he was a little too, shall we say … exotic.”
“Where was he from?” Lucie asked.
“He was born in Paris, to an extremely wealthy and aristocratic family.”
“So what was wrong with that?” Lucie pressed on.
“Do you really need me to spell it out for you? They were Jewish.” Charlotte mouthed the last part.
“Oh,” Lucie said quietly, her face clouding over. “Did your parents really object because of that?”
Charlotte sighed. “There were many reasons, but that was certainly a factor. It remained unsaid, but I know my parents. And I think you’re old enough now, Lucie, to realize how Granny can be sometimes. She used to refer to Jews as ‘the visitors.’ I was so confused whenever she said that until I realized what she meant when I took her shopping for cosmetics at Bergdorf’s one day. She whispered to me, ‘Time to change my regimen. The visitors have all discovered La Prairie!’”
“Oh dear God,” Olivia huffed contemptuously, while Lucie remained silent. Unlike her cousin, she had learned from a very early age precisely how her grandmother could be, and she preferred to block those memories out.
“What happened to Raphaël?” Olivia inquired.
“You know, the usual. Married some other blonde, had a bunch of kids, got divorced, got fat.”
Olivia snorted. “They all get fat, don’t they?”
“But when he was younger, boy, let me tell you … he was really something.”
Olivia raised an eyebrow. “How something was he?”
“Remember that guy in Sixteen Candles that Molly Ringwald was obsessed with?”
“Do I? I was obsessed with him too! God, what was his name? And what ever happened to him?”fn1
“I’m not sure, but Raphaël looked just like him, only handsomer.”
“Was he a good kisser? French boys are the best kissers, I find.”
Charlotte turned onto her back and glanced at her cousin. “Lucie, would you be a darling and go fetch us some drinks. An Arnold Palmer, maybe? I’m dying of th
irst.”
“Me too. Get them to put some vodka in mine,” Olivia said.
Lucie rolled her eyes. “Okay, I get the hint.”
She got up from her bed, left the terrace, and relayed the drink orders to a passing spa attendant. She wished to explore more of the grounds but wanted to avoid running into George again at all costs. Since he was probably with his mother getting a Thai massage down by the beach, Lucie thought it best to head upward. She wandered into a beautiful greenhouse constructed of stained-glass windows where a profusion of orchids was being cultivated, and then found another terrace where built-in sofas along the walls were scattered with colorful kilim pillows. Every corner of the property seemed to reveal a stunning new surprise, and she felt as though she were exploring some sort of Alice in Wonderland dreamscape. It’s all too beautiful, she thought. I don’t think I could live in a place this beautiful all year long.
Following signs to the High Garden, she climbed the staircase behind the old villa and came to a glade of ancient tropical palms that created a lush, verdant grove. As she entered, she came upon a marble fountain gurgling next to a carved Etruscan bench. She sat down for a moment in this serene spot, enveloped in the greenery and the chorus of cicadas making their midsummer mating calls, trying to make sense of her thoughts.
All through lunch, it felt like her mind had been doing Cirque du Soleil–size contortions over George and his mother. Why were the others being so mercilessly critical? The Ortiz sisters were such hypocrites. They didn’t care for Mrs. Zao’s “showy” style, but weren’t they being showy in their own way? Every time she saw the sisters, they were immaculately outfitted from head to toe, and even the Sultanah confirmed that the sisters dressed in couture. Yes, their black pearl earrings, delicate cashmere cardigans, and Chanel kitten heels looked subtler than Rosemary’s spangled chiffon caftans, but it was a look that still screamed of money, the sort of money that was far snobbier than the Zaos’. The sisters might live in Manila, but they were so interchangeable with all the women she had grown up around, the ones who populated the Upper East Side. And it was so apropos of Charlotte to align with those sisters. In a few decades, she would be just like them. She would be exactly like them all.
