Surveying the group, she was quite pleased. Everyone looked sharp, even the hired help. The waiters and bartender dressed chicly in fitted black button-downs and tapered black pants. The chef’s whites were starched and as yet unstained. The piano player’s tuxedo was obviously one he owned and not a rental, the bow tie actually tied, wasn’t a tacky clip-on. With the exception of Jules’s ridiculous snowflake dress, the Calhoun + Calhoun staff looked fashionable. And although Henry would’ve looked better in the green jacket, he looked distinguished. He stood slightly off to the side, at the back of the group. Fine, Claudine thought, let him play his favorite role: reluctant participant. At least he’s here. The Tigglemans nestled into one of the couches, and Kevin and Jerry remained standing, arms linked, eagerly listening.
“Welcome, everyone,” said Claudine. “Yes, tonight is our holiday party, but as you all know, this is also serving as an open house for one very special guest. A few ground rules for interacting with her. Don’t. This is specifically directed toward those of you working the party this evening. You are not to engage in any conversation with Zara. If she asks you a question, of course you should be polite and answer it. But that is all. Do not attempt to engage in conversation with her. For my team and those of you who are guests, obviously I want you to be charming and hospitable. I don’t want you to be standoffish. But neither do I want you to be overly chatty. Keep the small talk to a minimum. Zara’s attention should be on the house. Not us. Part of her interest in Aspen is because she wants anonymity. She wants to be treated like a normal person. So that’s what I expect you to do. No questions about her work. No ‘Where do you get your songwriting inspiration from?’ or ‘When you’re on tour, how do you manage to do those outfit changes so quickly between songs?’ None of that. And under no circumstances should you ask her anything about her personal life or her breakup with Liam.”
“We’ll treat him like Voldemort,” Jules said. “He Who Must Not Be Named.”
There was laughter among the group, although it quickly died upon seeing the serious look on Claudine’s face.
“And finally, there will absolutely be no photos taken of Zara. To ensure this, I’m going to ask you all to please hand over your phones. Louisa will collect them and lock them away so no one is tempted. I have the code to the Lions’ safe. They will be returned to you at the end of the night.”
Again the group laughed. Again Claudine’s face remained serious. When they realized she meant what she had said, their laughter turned into grumbling protests. Henry spoke up.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Claudine.”
“And I do,” she said. “We should be wrapped by eight o’clock. That’s two hours. Surely you can all last that long without checking your social accounts or whatever else you might be doing besides your jobs this evening. If your phone is more important to you than getting the chance to be in the same room as one of the greatest entertainers of our time, then by all means you’re free to leave. Go now.”
Nobody moved.
“No?”
“We don’t even have phones,” said Captain Tiggleman proudly. Mrs. Tiggleman patted his knee.
Louisa moved through the group, collecting them. Once she had them all in a stack, she stood by Claudine’s side.
“What about yours?” Kevin asked. “Aren’t you going to turn over your phone?”
“Yeah, what about your phone?” Jerry said.
“I need my phone to monitor Zara’s Instagram and see if she posts about the house and tags us,” said Claudine. “That’s another goal of this evening. We don’t just want her to buy this house; we want her to brag about it. We want her to advertise. So no fawning, no fangirling. Be the charming, smart, successful Calhoun + Calhoun friends and representatives you are. Or, especially if you work for me, as always, fear my wrath.”
This time Claudine smiled. This time no one laughed.
Then the doorbell rang, a booming series of chimes.
“That’s her!” Claudine said. “She’s here. Quick, everyone to your stations. Let’s get some piano music, some hors d’oeuvres circulating. Guests, please mingle, act natural. Henry, come stand with me to greet her.”
Claudine could feel a growing internal power. Complete control of her destiny was within reach. The life she’d always wanted. The life she deserved.
She took Henry by the hand and led him to the front door.
“How do I look?” she asked him.
“Ready,” he said.
That word triggered something. She suddenly felt an appreciation for him that she hadn’t felt since… possibly ever. He could have said “Gorgeous” or “Beautiful” or “Fantastic” or any other word. Instead, he chose the one that she needed to hear. She was ready. In that moment she was struck by how well he knew her. And by how much she needed him. She had always known how much she needed him as an artist—his talent. She had known that from the very beginning. It was the reason she had been so drawn to him, and the reason they had done what they had. But she never knew until that moment how much she needed him as a person—his love. She had been too hard on him lately. It was the stress of the business. Once tonight was over and they had sold the house to Zara, she would focus more on their relationship. Things would be better between them. They could start fresh. Not leave Aspen for good like he suggested, but maybe go on a vacation. Some time for just the two of them to get reacquainted with each other and work things out.
She put a hand to Henry’s cheek and smiled. Then took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Happy holidays,” said Steve.
Henry
Of course, Henry thought. That’s what this house did. It tainted and destroyed everything it came in contact with. It was worse than a haunted house. A haunted house conjured ghosts and apparitions and specters. This house did one better: it summoned the living. Put you face-to-face with your greatest fear. When the door opened, he saw Claudine’s face collapse. Then she quickly recovered.
“Steve,” she said. “Out caroling this evening? Where are the rest of the singers?”
“Claude, looking beautiful as ever,” he said. Claude. “And, Henry—I heard you were in the hospital, but you look terrific. What a relief. I was thinking on the way over here—what would happen to Calhoun + Calhoun without you? Who would build her houses?”
Henry saw him around town now and then. Aspen was too small to completely avoid someone. But they never spoke to each other. Henry made sure of it. A few times he saw Steve walking down the street and crossed to the other side. It wasn’t timidity that caused him to do this. It was fear. He was afraid of what he would do to Steve if he got too close to him. He had discovered the rage within himself and the barbarity he was capable of, and he could never allow that to happen again.
“What are you doing here, Steve?” Claudine asked. “You’re letting in a draft.”
“I came for the party, of course,” Steve said. “I even brought my White Elephant gift.”
He held up a large shopping bag with a wrapped box inside. By the way he strained to keep it raised, it was heavy.
The Calhoun + Calhoun holiday party wasn’t much of a secret in the Aspen real estate community. Enough employees had cycled in and out of the firm over the years that word had spread about the tradition. But how did he know they were having it at the Lions’? Someone must have told him about Zara. He was there to sabotage the sale of Montague House and steal her as a client. Maybe one of their agents had tipped him off to spite Claudine. Or maybe he’d gotten the information from someone at the airport or at her hotel. In Aspen, there were always a few bucks to be made from leaking the whereabouts of a visiting celebrity. Henry didn’t blame whoever told him. And he couldn’t even blame the house. He was the one who had built it. If anyone was to blame, it was him. Steve showing up was inevitable. That didn’t mean they had to let him in.
“Sorry,” Claudine said. “No room at the inn.”
As she started to close the door, the headl
ights of a black SUV pulled in the drive.
“Oh, that must be her,” Steve said. “I’ll wait. Say hi to Zara. I’m sure she’ll ask me why I’ve been turned away. It’ll be awkward, but I’ll have to tell her… everything.”
Steve was right. It was too late. If they wanted to sell the house to Zara, they couldn’t make a scene. And now Henry did want to sell the house to Zara. Up until now he hadn’t cared. His career was over tomorrow either way. Steve trying to poach her from Claudine, though, that changed the game. Now he had to protect what was his. Ready to compete. Busting up Steve’s plan and securing the Zara sale wouldn’t make up for what he had done to them, to their marriage. But at least it was something—a small bit of retribution.
“Come in,” Henry said. “Louisa will take your coat and your phone. And Jules will take your gift.”
It was only 29 degrees outside, but as they stood on the front step, about to greet Zara, Henry felt a trickle of sweat drip down his back.
PART TWO The Affair
Claudine
Everything was supposed to change the day she received her real estate license. The previous two weeks had been nothing but constant studying, and the night before the exam she hadn’t slept at all. Between working full-time as a receptionist at The Gilman Agency and taking classes, not a moment was wasted. Like most young people in Aspen, after college she had come for the skiing but quickly found working as a sales associate in the pro shops to be too mind-numbing and ambitionless. She answered an ad to pay the bills and find something more challenging. It only took a few months before she realized she had a knack for understanding the ins and outs of real estate. All you really had to do was learn how people worked, and wasn’t her sociology degree at least good for that? Besides, it wasn’t all bad. She and Steve, her boss, got along, and every Friday the agency hosted a happy hour in the office.
Around the same time she got the receptionist’s job, she met Henry. They were both eating alone at the bar of the Red Onion. She was reading the Aspen Tribune, an article on the new tourist information booth, and Henry leaned over and said, “I designed that.” Later, when she got to know him better, she would think back with surprise at how forward he’d been. That wasn’t like him at all. He was shy, humble. It made her realize the kind of effect she’d had on him, that he simply had to get her attention. She was genuinely impressed as he explained it was his first gig out of school; a friend of a friend’s father needed some quick, cheap labor. Henry tricked the place out without going over budget. Reclaimed wood, rock floors, an air purification system created by a plant wall. His talent and potential were immediately clear to her. Three months later, she was the one who first mentioned marriage. She knew he had a gift and in the right situation could achieve greatness. She could help him get there—help them get there. Faster. It always felt like her life wasn’t moving fast enough. She wanted more, now. What was so virtuous about patience? That maxim made no sense, especially if you abided by that other one about life being short. She said they should forget a big wedding and go straight down to the county clerk’s office on East Main Street. Henry wasn’t so sure. Didn’t she want a fancy ceremony and a big ring? Yes. Of course. But she knew greater opulence was in store. What mattered most was locking him in. When she knew, she knew. And she wanted him. Assured him that he’d get her a big fat ring in a few years. When he was rich and famous for his designs. “You will be famous,” she told Henry. Eventually he did get her a ring: 3.02 karats.
In her opinion, Henry was underused and underappreciated at his job. It was a small but respected commercial design firm that did uninteresting projects. During this crunch time, before her real estate licensing test, Henry was crucial. Taking care of anything logistical—the bills, the shopping, the cleaning—so she could be laser focused. It was the only time in their relationship when their own house wasn’t the picture of order. He was going through a model building phase; she was always looking for a pen. They were young, and the excitement of knowing the next part of life was about to start, that everything was ahead of them, made working that hard easy.
The morning she passed, it was Steve she wanted to see first, not Henry. She couldn’t wait to tell him she was ready to be his new star agent. He was on the phone when she burst into his office. Without looking, he shooed her out and continued pitching whoever the sorry sucker was on the other end of the line, his lips smacking like a beast, the saliva in his mouth spraying his desk with each word. Not the reception she was imagining.
Claudine walked back to her desk. All around, agents were happily chatting with potential clients. None of them were her friends, nor had they been particularly nice during the year she had been there. In a bold moment, Claudine had asked Steve why he’d hired half the sales team in the first place. She didn’t see what was so special about them. They seemed exactly mediocre.
“That’s precisely what’s special about them,” Steve said.
They worked for him, he needed to make sure they never forgot that. Now, looking at them, she started to understand what he had meant. Truth, some customers like dealing with someone average. They don’t ever want to feel threatened. They feel safest doing business with someone bland. These people drive Volvos, watch Seinfeld reruns, invest in low-risk mutual funds. Safe players. Patient.
She went back to her desk. There was a package and a card waiting for her. She unwrapped it. A thin white picture frame. She opened the card. For your license. I’m so proud of you and can’t wait to celebrate tonight. Love, Henry. He was planning on cooking her a celebratory dinner. Finally crack open that bottle of rare Scotch they’d received from his coworkers as a wedding gift.
Steve appeared at her desk. His lame congratulations already felt too late. He was off to Snowmass for an appointment, not even considering the possibility that she might join him, now that she was a licensed agent. It was clear that nothing had changed: she was to answer phones and file paperwork. It was frustrating. It didn’t matter that his offer to take her out for a celebratory drink after work was in reaction to the disappointment on her face. It was the opening she needed.
“I’ll make us a reservation,” she said.
Then he was gone, leaving Claudine to sit and stare at the phone. This wasn’t going to work. She had to find a way to stand out. Sifting through a stack of everyone else’s purchase and sales agreements, she was quick to realize these were not going to be her clients. Poseurs. Riffraff overextending their credit lines, barely scraping together minimum down payments, needing private mortgage insurance. No, her clients would be different. She stayed in Aspen for one reason: the luxury market, the endless supply of money and the rich’s desperate need to spend it. Those were the kind of clients Steve dealt with. Clients like that weird husband and wife, her with the plastic surgery and him wearing that captain’s hat. The Tigglemans. If she wanted that business, she would have to learn more than what was on her real estate exam. She would have to learn his secrets and methods. And she would have to give him a reason to teach them to her.
Pushing Henry as far from her thoughts as possible, she picked up the phone and made a reservation at Ajax Tavern. A table in the back, please. Later, after she and Steve had polished off a perfect coq au vin with a bottle of pink champagne, she suggested a nightcap at J-Bar. She knew it was one of his favorite spots. They sat close on leather stools and Steve told her stories until closing. Dry cabernet after dry cabernet, she asked question after question. He was dizzy, drunk on the sound of his own voice. Going on and on about how Aspen had changed over the years and where he saw new opportunity cropping up everywhere. It was like a master class in real estate theory, and there wasn’t a bit of information she didn’t file away. God, the man loved to talk about himself. She was learning more about the business in one evening than most would in their first few years.
She liked the mystery that came with figuring out what made him so successful. Her analysis was acute. Start on the surface. Perhaps his defining characteristic wa
s that, year-round, his skin was a nice shade of orange. Steve made no secret of the fact he tanned. Actually, he was open about it in the most intriguing way. He normalized it. Got in a good tan today, he’d brag. He was one hundred percent Aspen. Claudine was unable to imagine him in any other environment, any other town. There was no way he could exist walking down the streets of New York—or any city, for that matter. He could exist only here. She had to admire his singular nature, the mixture of gaudy and charm that kept him universally well-liked, which was tough to do in a place of so many economic disparities. There were the rich who owned and the poor who rented, usually down-valley, with hardly anything in between. But it was hard to find a person who didn’t like Steve.
No one cared if he showed up to important meetings without a pen. In seconds, five people would be tripping over each other, volunteering to take notes, offering up their own pens. She had been one of them. Claudine cherry picked which of his strategies were of use to her. “Strategies.” His word, reflecting his obsession with motivational and self-help books. More like scams. Even more accurate: lies.
Steve was a master of reading a situation and conveniently reciting exactly the right anecdote to seal the deal. Truth played no part in the matter. If you listen very closely, he’d say, you’ll start seeing how through simple conversation people reveal so much personal data. Those details were as valuable as currency—what eventually translated into currency. The equation was simple. A small piece of personal information plus a dash of something magical equals exactly what they want to hear. Think aspirational. Tailor the story to who they want to be rather than who they are.
When a Houston-based oilman with a bemused look on his face showed up wanting to buy a “shack” to do some fly-fishing in the spring, Steve told him it was his lucky day. Jack Nicholson’s old place was on the market. It was right near a sweet spot on the Roaring Fork River. He and Jack pulled nine trout out of the hole one afternoon last July, all over eighteen inches. Cooked them up right there on the riverbank. Jack liked to carry a little satchel of salt in his pocket, which made all the difference. It was the best meal he’d ever had in his life.
White Elephant Page 6
