by Amy Korman
Chapter 7
“HOLLY’S MID-MELTDOWN,” JOE told me as he roared up the entrance ramp to I-95 and headed back toward Magnolia Beach. “She’s having a Howard episode.”
I could see true concern in Joe’s expression. It’s true that Holly is much happier and more stable since she married Howard Jones a few years ago. She doesn’t enjoy being alone, and she honestly gets a little manic when Howard isn’t around. She seemed to always feel safe and secure with Howard when they first got together. But on and off for the past year, Holly thought he was going to cheat, and when she got the idea in her mind, she couldn’t be convinced otherwise. I was positive, however, that Howard wasn’t having any flings. He really loved her. And they’d been reunited and doing great since last spring—or so I thought.
“Is it a bartender?” Last year, Holly was convinced that Howard had embarked on a lusty affair with a bartender at the Porterhouse, his favorite Philly steak house. The girl in question was extremely well endowed, and Howard did go to the Porterhouse a lot, but he finally convinced Holly that he only went there for the steak.
“This is worse,” Joe told me grimly, Ray-Ban aviators firmly in place, wind whipping back his longish brown hair. “I’ll show you on my phone as soon we get to another red light.”
We passed through most of town, until we reached a traffic jam as we approached the corner where Vicino and the incipient Gianni Mare stood across from each other.
We both forgot about Holly’s marriage woes for a moment, because there was a major scene happening outside Gianni’s new place.
The action at the new restaurant resembled the amount of rushing around, chaos, and frenzied construction normally associated with the Super Bowl halftime show. Large white tents had been erected around both the front and side entrance of the restaurant formerly known as The Peacock, blocking the view of the insta-renovations going on within.
As we parked the Caddy, two workers carried out The Peacock’s ornately painted sign through the tent flaps and unceremoniously flung it into a huge Dumpster parked on the corner. So much for a piece of Magnolia Beach history, I thought, wondering if I could have e-Bayed the sign to some nostalgic WASP who’d been a devotee of The Peacock’s famous crab soufflé, which, Adelia had told us, had once been the town’s signature dish.
In front of the Dumpster, a vehicle that resembled a rock band’s tour bus and was stamped with an HGTV logo idled noisily. From it emerged cameramen, clipboard-wielding assistants, and finally a beautiful woman in super-tight jeans, stiletto heels, and a low-cut white blouse. Clearly the star of the show, the girl also wore a tool belt and was carrying a fan deck of paint colors.
“Sienna Blunt!” Joe said angrily. “I can’t believe Gianni convinced her to do his forty-eight-hour makeover. Plus, it’s a travesty that she even has her own show!”
“Maybe it’s because she looks great in the tool belt,” I suggested. Honestly, the dangling wrenches somehow oozed sex.
“Any girl looks good in a tool belt,” said Joe angrily. “That’s Maxim magazine’s go-to look.”
“For a pop-up restaurant, this looks pretty elaborate, doesn’t it?” I said to Joe, trying to end the Sienna rant. The same workmen who’d dumped the Peacock’s venerable placard into the trash emerged from a paneled truck with a replacement sign made of carefully aged French zinc. Hand-hammered into the zinc were elegant block letters reading “Gianni Mare,” and a charming, antique-style spotlight was mounted above the large sign. “That sign must have taken weeks to make.”
“Chef Gianni isn’t the type to pop up,” Joe said. “He’s more of a plotter and schemer, especially when it comes to taking down Channing and Jessica. Plus, this is a major installation. Pop-ups are supposed to be done quick and on the cheap.”
“Would HGTV pay for all of this?” I asked as we watched workmen emerge from the ramp of a truck carrying an enormous, pricey-looking, twelve-arm silver chandelier. They took it in through the tent flaps, followed by additional guys toting matching silver sconces.
“Absolutely not! I priced that chandelier recently for Sophie’s house, and it was sixteen thousand dollars. That’s close to the whole budget for a TV show makeover,” Joe said, looking annoyed. “I mean, even Sophie didn’t want to spend that on a light fixture.”
“This place is looking very 1997,” he added dismissively, as Sienna Blunt directed a group of landscapers carrying lush jasmine bushes in zinc planters inside the white tented entrance. “Brasserie decor is all wrong for Florida.”
Personally, I loved the zinc sign, and the planters looked beautiful, but then again, Joe has a habit of dissing any design job he hasn’t overseen. He spends most of his weekends, in fact, visiting shops, bistros, showrooms, and hotels around Philly just so he can weigh in on his competitors. A designer show house can enrage him for weeks.
“Let’s blow this clusterfuck,” he added grumpily as he headed back to the car, stepping aside to make way for a girl carrying a rack of wineglasses.
As I was trying to imagine how hot the beige leather seats that had been baking in subtropical sun would feel through my Gap sundress (twenty-two dollars, end-of-season sale), I heard a familiar friendly voice hailing me from across Ocean Boulevard.
“Doll! Is that you? What are you doing down here?”
TWO BEAUTIFULLY DRESSED men crossed the street. Each wore a crisp white shirt and had a golden tan that spoke of afternoons on the tennis court and lunches by a shimmering pool. They toted neat leather bags from which poked iPad minis. On their leather bags and iPad cases, “Colkett” was stamped in distinctive, tasteful script.
“Kristin Clark and Joe Delafield! We couldn’t be happier to see you!” Tim Colkett said, looking genuinely surprised and pleased. The Colketts were Bryn Mawr’s preeminent landscape and floral designers, who were known for creating spectacular yards and party settings. They are exceptionally good at what they do, and the two are also extremely nice guys. Holly counts them as good friends.
“Don’t you love this town? So overpriced!” added his colleague, Tom Colkett.
“Is Holly here?” asked Tim hopefully. The Colketts had designed many an overpriced party for Holly.
“She sure is,” I told him. “I’m staying with her, as a matter of fact. She’s over at The Breakers at a workout class right now.”
“That’s where we’re staying,” Tom told us. “What a hotel! And I’m guessing you’re down here with Sophie,” he added to Joe. “She’s adorable. We can’t wait to get back up north to work on her new house with you.”
“Yeah, that’ll be great,” said Joe, who was clearly as puzzled as I was to see the Colketts. “Are you guys here on a, uh, vacation?” asked Joe.
“I’d call it more of a working trip,” Tom told him. “We’re helping Gianni with the renovation. Although, since we’re staying at The Breakers and not paying a dime, and we’ll be starring on the show about this makeover, it’s not exactly hardship labor!”
“You made up with Gianni?” I asked, shocked.
The previous spring, during a testy dispute over a bill at Gianni’s Bryn Mawr restaurant, the Colketts had been verbally excoriated by Gianni, who’d gone so far as to lob a rock-hard piece of preserved fruit at Tim Colkett. It had taken the unlucky florist weeks to regain his full hearing. The Colketts had been understandably terrified of Gianni and had only agreed to work with him again if they could deal with Jessica, who’d still been the chef’s girlfriend at the time.
“We had to make up with Gianni when he offered us this job,” Tom said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I mean, our business in Bryn Mawr is dead in January. No one’s even ordering flowers.”
“You know our policy,” Tim reminded me. “We love any customer, as long as they’re rich. And Gianni is currently spending like, well, your friend Holly. He hasn’t disputed a single bill. And trust me, findi
ng full-size jacaranda trees for this place hasn’t been exactly cheap!”
“I understand,” I nodded. “It’s hard to pass up work in Florida when there’s nothing going on at home.” How is Gianni affording all this? I wondered as a truck pulled up and the drivers unlocked the rear door, then began trundling out kitchen equipment. “Do you know who his investors are?” I asked the Colketts.
“Er, not really,” said Tim. “I mean, we hear rumors, but who really knows!”
“I’ve gotten some design work down here myself,” Joe said, faux modestly. “With the tobacco heiress Adelia Earle. It’ll probably end up in Elle Decor, which of course isn’t as mainstream as HGTV.”
“Gianni Mare’s theme is one hundred percent blue and white!” explained Tim. “Our concept. That Sienna didn’t have a single idea. So we brought in some Chinese export porcelain and helped her match paint colors and come up with a theme for the banquettes and the window treatments. The banquettes are a superb cerulean color piped with bright white and then the curtains are the reverse! All the plates and barware are blue and white, and the ceiling is being hand painted as a trompe l’oeil. The floor, of course, is a blue and white chevron. They’re priming the walls as we speak.”
“It’s gorgeous,” nodded Tom. “It’s like you’ve died and woken up in an antique urn. Well, actually I guess you could die and end up in an urn, but you know what I mean.”
Joe looked devastated. I knew he would immediately shit-can his blue-and-white concept for Adelia Earle’s pavilion. He’d never want to do the same theme that the Colketts and Sienna Blunt had dreamed up for Gianni Mare.
“So, will you two be at the opening?” Tim asked me. “I’d invite you myself, but I can’t risk being on the wrong end of one of Gianni’s moods,” he added apologetically. “You know how he gets, and I know you guys are friends with Channing and Jessica.”
“We might be there,” I told them. “Gianni’s always liked Holly. He told her she’s definitely invited tomorrow.”
“As a matter of fact, we’d better get inside!” Tom said, nudging his colleague urgently. “Because Gianni just pulled up. See ya!”
“PINK,” SAID JOE MISERABLY. “I’m going to have to go with pink at Adelia’s house. She has way too much green already, and yellow just isn’t going to work.” He let out a huge sigh.
“I’ll call Mrs. Earle right now. She’s probably had at least two margaritas since we left. She might not even remember the blue-and-white idea.”
“I’m really sorry,” I told him. “But pink sounds amazing. Who doesn’t love pink! Your pavilion will be a million times cooler than Gianni’s place,” I added.
“His space sounds like a migraine waiting to happen!” agreed Joe as he dialed Adelia. He perked up. “Pink will be the new color of the season, mark my words. I’m thinking hand painted pink butterflies glazed onto the walls and a trellis-patterned floor. This is going to be way better than that stupid blue theme!”
Chapter 8
AS JOE DIALED Adelia and cranked up the air-conditioning inside the Caddy, I saw Jessica’s thin, tanned face peeking through the fichus hedges on Vicino’s patio, a thin plume of smoke rising from where she sat. Her Louboutin strappy sandals were visible beneath the lush green foliage that surrounded the tables in the outdoor dining area.
Not surprisingly, Jessica looked stunned and upset by the level of frenzied construction going on just opposite her own restaurant. And since she and Channing had moved more than a thousand miles to get away from Gianni, I didn’t think they’d see his new restaurant as friendly competition. Still, I had to give Jessica credit: a girl with a sprained hand that can balance on five-inch heels isn’t going to let her rage-aholic ex-boyfriend scare her off.
In fact, as we idled, a car with “Miami Herald” inscribed on its door parked behind us and a young reporter, followed by a bored-looking photographer with a ponytail and a beer gut, hopped out and approached the boobalicious Sienna. Clearly, Gianni Mare was big news, and the whole instant-makeover angle was only making matters more interesting for local media.
For her part, Jessica gave Joe and me a little wave with her cigarette, but her expression was pure misery as she turned on her heel and disappeared inside Vicino. She obviously hadn’t expected Gianni’s “pop-up” venture to be an all-out, over-the-top restaurant on steroids.
“Should we stop in and check on Channing and Jessica before we take off?” I asked Joe, who had just surreptitiously gulped down a Xanax. “She looks pretty upset.”
“No way,” he said. “We’ll see those two tonight at dinner. Let’s forget about confronting Holly, and hit a couple of antiques stores. I better start buying stuff for Adelia’s place before the Colketts steal my pink theme for their next job.” He floored the convertible, and we hung a left and headed toward the Intercoastal.
I looked up, admiring the gorgeous phalanx of royal palms that shaded this beautiful road, and the lush banks of pink and red impatiens banked magnificently in a center median. Not one speck of dust or one stray palm frond or wayward coconut marred the perfection of the wide avenue. A woman in a spotless green Jaguar, top up and hair in shellacked perfection, drove past us. Her face was beautiful, but frozen to the point that she might not have actually been alive. But then she hung a right into a bank parking lot.
“Here, check my iPhone tracker,” Joe instructed me. “I’ve got Holly on there, it’s the icon at the top right. Just click it, and it’ll tell you exactly where she is. And it better not be the Gucci store.”
“She’s still on Palm Avenue,” I told Joe, peering at the screen, where a small circular icon on a map showed Holly’s location.
“It’s part of a manic episode brought on by Howard being away in Indianapolis,” Joe sighed, shaking his head. “That’s why she’s been working out so much, too.” Joe paused at the stoplight before the causeway and looked at me with a concerned expression under his jaunty straw hat.
“She’s in the middle of a full-blown Howard meltdown,” he said, then gunned the car when the light turned green. “And this time, I don’t think she’s inventing a problem.”
I was truly upset to hear this. And worried for Holly, especially since she seemed so manic. She’s naturally skinny and hates exercise, so when Holly starts working out excessively, there’s something seriously bothering her. I mean, once in a while, she’ll put on a tennis outfit and go to lunch in it, but that’s mainly because she looks good in a short white skirt. She doesn’t actually pick up a racket or anything.
Everything had seemingly been going well in Holly’s marriage over the last six months, or at least I’d thought. She and Joe had even created a “man room” with brown walls, a huge antique desk, and a pool table for Howard at their house in Bryn Mawr, since Howard didn’t share her obsession with airy, all-white and pale-gray modern decor. And, understandably, he wanted one small space in their nine thousand square feet of house where he could drink a glass of red wine without fear of leaving a ring on a white marble table. Holly had also received a gorgeous antique ruby ring from Howard as a getting-back-together present, after which they had thrown a non-divorce party at their newly renovated house.
Then Howard had actually taken time off, which he never does, and they’d spent August in Tuscany. I mean, how bad could things be?
“Holly had a Google freak-out last week,” Joe said, turning left onto the Dixie Highway, which had a charmingly run-down, old-time Florida look to it. There were high-end antiques stores in low-rise shopping centers, and next to the fancy shops, I noticed a few consignment stores. There were also, I noticed, quite a few liquor stores.
“Google Images, actually, was what triggered the Palm Avenue shopping,” Joe clarified further. “And the obsession with working out.”
“Was there a picture of Howard doing something, you know, illicit?” I asked, worried
.
Howard’s truly devoted to Holly, or so I’d always thought. He never gets riled up by anything she does or suggests. Take their trip to Italy: When Holly bought out the row of first-class seats behind theirs so that her new leather goods would have their own seats and wouldn’t get smooshed on the flight home, did he say anything? Not at all. He just smiled and dutifully toted boxes of Valentino sling backs and Miu Miu leather satchels to seats 3A and 3B. I guess the shoes and bags hadn’t wanted to ride in coach.
“Howard’s been out in Indiana for almost a month now on that garbage-company takeover,” Joe reminded me. “He told Holly he couldn’t come down here to Florida last weekend—which he’s been doing every Friday since we’ve been here—because the company he’s buying in the Midwest was doing a major charity event that Saturday. It was like Habitat for Humanity.
“Or something,” Joe added vaguely, waving his hand dismissively at the notion of Midwesterners banding together to build a house for the needy. It’s not worth trying to convince Joe that worthy causes are in fact worthy.
“There was a big indoor barbecue party after the charity thingy for all the volunteers, which was covered by the local paper,” Joe explained. “Obviously, Holly isn’t going to bang nails or whatever at Habitat for Humanity, but she could have gone to Indiana for the weekend. Instead, she told Howard she couldn’t come because she had to help Jessica choose new cocktail napkins for Vicino.”
“Picking out napkins probably took about four minutes,” I said, concerned. “Maybe she should have gone to Indiana!”
“That won’t happen,” Joe shook his head. “She wouldn’t go anyway, because she doesn’t go to barbecues. I mean, where people are eating food like ribs and cheeseburgers. Plus, it’s seven degrees right now in Indianapolis, so the barbecue was held in a local college field house, and that sealed the deal. Holly told Howard that she never went to a field house while she was actually enrolled in college, and she isn’t about to start now.” Joe was still zooming down the Dixie Highway, which was all warehouses and car repair shops at this point. “Plus, Holly claims she only gets on planes that are headed either south or east, like in the direction of the Bahamas,” he added.
