Reluctant Witness

by Barton, Sara M.

  “It’s very grand,” I replied, offering a faint smile. I didn’t dare tell him I thought it was like a movie set, all drama played for effect.

  “But?”

  “Just that. It’s magnificent.”

  “And yet not your cup of tea.” He curled his lips and I again saw the resemblance to his brothers. His eyes were darker than Lincoln’s, more like Jack’s. I noticed a very faint scar, a couple of inches in length, along his chin. Had it come as a result of his terrible accident all those years ago?

  “No,” I acknowledged, “It’s not what I’d call homey, but it’s still lovely. The architecture is certainly elegant.”

  “You can relax, Marigold. It’s okay. You won’t offend me. I just bought the place and haven’t been able to figure out what to do with it. Take a breath and tell me your thoughts.”

  I took a moment and gazed all around, gathering up my impressions of what I had seen so far.

  “This place has great bones, but it doesn’t have a human scale to it. It needs to be fleshed out with some meat. Its beauty is lost in the sea of boring carpeting, overblown chandeliers, and enough gold leafing to choke a horse.” As I said that, I flashed back to Lincoln’s unfinished Reston condo. Maybe the brothers were more alike than they knew. Was Jeff also pining for a woman?

  “And if it were your home, what would you do? I’ve been through three designers so far, so why don’t you give it a shot?”

  “Is that patio yours?” I pointed to the brick terrace outside.

  “It’s one of the reasons I bought the place. I plan to do a lot of entertaining here.”

  “I wouldn’t even dream of decorating this place until I had that all planned out.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “You’d start outside?”

  “Absolutely. As long as that wall over there is just one giant stretch of plain concrete, it makes this room feel...cold...uninviting. That’s what you see every day when you stand here. The landscape is every bit as important as the most critical elements of interior design, especially when you have these massive windows overlooking it. That outdoor space should be integrated to work with the home, not treated as an afterthought.”

  I stood next to him. All those glorious hours of my childhood, spent in the gardens of my grandparents and parents, came flooding back to me. I could remember the charm of the outdoor spaces that were carefully crafted as open-air rooms; to an imaginative child, they were completely magical playgrounds. How could I explain it to someone who had never seen such wonders?

  “Right now, it’s all one level, Jeff. We’re looking at nothing. Even in winter, a patio like this needs to have greenery.”

  “It is rather barren, isn’t it? Alas, I’m not able to dig up the terrace and add a garden. Condo rules,” he shrugged. “I can’t alter the existing structure.”

  “No, but you can do raised beds that aren’t permanent, can’t you? Use evergreens in varying heights and shapes along the wall, to add variety and give the eye something pleasant to view. A decorative trellis would add color and visual interest, especially if you plant something impressive, like heirloom roses. You could add Versailles planter boxes on either end, with native fruit trees; peach, apple, cherry, even citrus. Imagine Meyer lemons and key limes all summer long. You could bring those plants inside in winter and let them soak up the sun in front of these windows.”

  “That sounds doable, Marigold.” He urged me on. I could tell he was imagining the potential as we talked. “What else?”

  “You could add a water feature, maybe a wall fountain or a small reflecting pool, and illuminate it at night.”

  “By the time you’re done, I’ll need to hire a full-time landscaper,” he remarked, giving me his most charming smile.

  “Oh, I know. I’m getting carried away.”

  “That’s okay. Feel free. Your ideas are already more in keeping with my comfort zone than what my decorators offered up. Now I’m curious. If money were no object, what would you do in here?”

  “I’m no interior decorator,” I laughed, stepping back. “I’m just a party planner.”

  “Then approach this with that in mind. What would you do to make this the perfect event space?”

  “Ah, that’s a horse of a different color.” I took a few seconds to consider the dilemma. In my years as an events coordinator, I had fretted over the details of many a gathering. The toughest were the weddings. A lot of brides wanted to throw every sequin and pearl at their celebration, and I often had to explain why such a strategy was a bad idea. On a wedding day, all eyes should be on the couple as they shared their vows, not the decorations. For that reason, the venue had to feel elegant, but understated. Little details might add sparkle to the setting, but picking the right place made all the difference. A lake view, a balcony overlooking a tranquil forest, a terrace with a mountain backdrop -- these were the elements that would live on in the photographs that captured important moments in a wedding celebration. That mattered more than whether the white slipcovers on the chairs were damask or satin, or tied with gold bows or silver.

  “You have to find the good bones before you do anything,” I told him. I gazed around, trying to put into words what didn’t work about the condo. My objection wasn’t the architecture itself; much of its beauty was buried under heavy window dressing. It needed to be stripped down and treated with dignity, not burdened with more decorative embellishment. “The difference between natural beauty that shines through and artifice is that artifice feels heavy and unnatural. Think of women who don’t wear a lot of makeup because they’ve got good bone structure; they’re confident their inner beauty will shine through, as compared to women who slather on the makeup to cover up what they perceive to be their flaws. There’s no need for this condo to hide the airy feel of the tall ceilings or to pretend to be something it’s not. It’s a home for a man who feels comfortable in jeans, not a man who dresses for dinner every night and rings for the butler to fetch him a glass of water every time he’s thirsty. If you’re not pretentious, why should your home be?”

  “What makes you think I’m not pretentious?” he shot back with an amused grin. “You think I’m always dressed like this?”

  “No, but I think you’re confident enough about yourself that you don’t need to fake it.” As I said that, I looked him right in the eye. “You are what you are. That’s what your home should reflect. How else will you ever feel at home here? Do you want to feel like a visitor for the rest of your life, living in someone else’s vision of what your home should be, or do you want to claim this as your own and put your own stamp on it?”

  As he watched me, I could feel the energy sizzle between us. Jefferson Cornwall clearly enjoyed locking horns, much the same way that rams and bulls like to push their way to victory. He was a force to be reckoned with, but I believed myself up to the task, as long as I didn’t push him to the point where he decided I was an opponent. I reminded myself to stay on his good side, flashing him my most engaging smile as I delivered my assessment.

  “Marigold, you are a breath of fresh air, a clean wind to sweep out all the cobwebs in the corners. Don’t stop there. What would you do to fix this debacle?”

  “I love the columns and the capitals in this room, but they get lost in the razzle dazzle glitz of the gold leafing. I’d pare it all back and remove the excess embellishments, so you can appreciate the wonderful sculptural qualities of the classic architecture.” Once I got started, I had trouble stopping. “You could replace the carpeting with hardwood flooring; some antique rugs would go a long way towards giving this room some personality. Add some color to the upper walls, so that the wainscoting really stands out. It’s not a matter of ripping everything out.”

  “It’s not?” he teased. For a moment, I almost thought he was flirting with me.

  “This room reminds me of...”

  “Monticello?” he smiled. The mention of Thomas Jefferson’s masterpiece hit me like a flash of lightning. All the pieces fell into plac
e. In an instant, I understood why he bought this place. There was promise here of something wonderful, waiting to be extracted from the ruins.

  “Have you ever been to Poplar Forest,” I inquired, “Jefferson’s retreat in Forest, Virginia?”

  His eyes seemed to twinkle as he watched me, bemused. “My dear, do you know nothing of the Cornwall family history? Good lord, my father would adore you!”

  “Why not take advantage of the architectural brilliance of your namesake?” I suggested. I threw an idea out for my host. “You could have a gazebo or pergola with Chippendale railings out there. You could utilize some of his gardening concepts. And in here, you could echo the federal style he embraced.”

  “How would you like to help me make it happen, Marigold?”

  “What?” I replied, taken aback.

  “If you’re going to hang around here, you might as well earn your keep. I’m going to put you to work on this project. We’ll have to give you a job title.” We both turned at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. “Ah, there’s Rocky. Let’s share the news with him.”

  “Did I miss something?” asked the security expert as he joined us in the living room.

  “Marigold has had a brilliant idea about how to proceed with this place.”

  “Oh, does she agree with me? I suggested he blow it up and start from scratch,” Rocky told me, pretending to depress a plunger. “This place is so over the top. He had so many other choices of condos to pick, but he insisted on this one....”

  “Where else in Atlanta, in Buckhead, could I find a condo with so much room and an outdoor terrace like this? I wasn’t about to squeeze myself into a two-bedroom for the same price, not when I could have all this glorious space!”

  “Why does one man need four bedrooms? Or a living room the size of California?” Rocky demanded. “You live alone, man! I share a normal-sized home with a wife and three kids. The whole house would easily fit in here!”

  “I told you I need it for entertaining business clients. And I want it to be a place for family and friends when they come to stay with me. I’ve got big plans for this place.”

  “I still think you bit off more than you could chew,” insisted the long-time friend. Watching Rocky in action, it was clear that he wasn’t impressed by Jeff’s wealth or his celebrity status. And Jeff certainly seemed to appreciate Rocky’s candor, since the man wasn’t about to concede anything unless it made sense. “It’s a giant money pit.”

  “Nonsense. Wait till you see what we’re going to do, starting outside. Marigold had some great ideas.”

  “Might I use your powder room?” I asked, interrupting.

  “Of course you may. Down the hall, in the foyer,” Jeff told me. He went on with his conversation as I left the living room.

  My little shadow padded after me, curiosity getting the better of Kary. The first door I opened led to a closet, with a handful of hangers on the rod and not much else. The second revealed a handsomely paneled den without a smidgen of gold in sight. The leather sofa and a pair of club chairs were surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves, stacked with books of every shape and size. There was nothing Hollywood in here, save for a couple of Emmy awards on one of the shelves. I could imagine Jeff putting his feet up on the coffee table, watching the small flat screen TV on the opposite wall. Framed photographs covered the wall closest to me. Curious, I stepped closer and took a look at a few, expecting to see celebrities. I was pleasantly surprised to find Jack and Philomena in one, not so pleasantly surprised to find Lincoln and Deirdre in another. There was even an image of the three brothers at the top of a summit, arms around each other as they mugged for the camera. It looked fairly recent.

  “Come on, boy. There’s one more door to try,” I said to my companion. The little dog wagged his tail as we stepped out of the room.

  I crossed the marble floor and turned the knob on my third choice. It opened on a long, narrow room dressed in red flocked wallpaper. A gold shell sink was fitted into black marble on top of an antique Louis XVI-style dresser, gilded carvings glistening thanks to the blindingly bright crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling by a gold chain. An elaborately carved mirror, shell-and-cherub-encrusted, hung on the wall, flanked by candle sconces dripping with crystals. The toilet, black and high-backed, had a fancy antique-style gold-and-crystal lever.

  “Mon dieu,” I exclaimed aloud. “Sacré bleu!”

  Chapter Twenty

  I felt like a time traveler who had stumbled into a pseudo-seventeenth century chateaux -- the only things missing were my powdered wig and blue satin gown. Reaching for the toilet paper, I found none in sight, leading to a moment’s panic until I noticed the burled wood box, draped with gold-leaf swags, on the wall. Concealed inside was a plush roll. I helped myself to a handful of the stuff.

  Studying the room as I went about my business, I decided it wasn’t really total disaster. There was no need to change the classic marble tiles or the toilet. Remove the wallpaper and the light fixtures, change the ornate sink vanity, and use a plainer toilet lever, the powder room would be functional and attractive. These certainly weren’t expensive alterations.

  “Well, look at me,” I chuckled to my attentive companion, now wagging his tail at my feet. “I was all worried about losing my party business and here I am in Atlanta, already thinking about a new career. So far, so good.”

  We rejoined the men in the living room, only to find the renovation discussion had continued in our absence. Rocky laughed when I shared my thoughts on the bathroom.

  “Oh, great. Now there are two of you to jump into the endless money pit with both feet! Must you feed his delusions of grandeur, Marigold? I am so disappointed with you,” he sniffed. “You looked like such a level-headed girl.”

  “She can’t help herself. I seem to have that effect on women,” Jefferson replied good-humoredly. “It’s all because of my natural wit and charm.”

  “Natural wit and charm, my Aunt Fanny!” Rocky countered. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Marigold. Watch out for this guy. He’s a clever bastard. He’ll turn your head with his fancy ideas and have you turning cartwheels for him if you’re not careful.”

  “Might I remind you who signs your paycheck?” Jeff asked with a hint of disdain in his tone. The head of Roaring Kill Productions security team just snorted in response.

  “Might I remind you that you assigned me to look out for Marigold? I’m just doing my job, boss. I wouldn’t want this sweet, little songbird swallowed up by the big, bad jungle cat.”

  “You can be replaced. Plenty of ex-cops looking for work.”

  “Ditto,” was Rocky’s quick retort. I could tell they were used to verbally jousting with each other; it was something they clearly enjoyed doing. “There are plenty of rich guys who need security, especially when they get mouthy.”

  “If I promise not to do any handsprings in here, will you boys kiss and make up?” I asked. They both turned in my direction, seemingly surprised by my good-natured teasing.

  “Well, well,” Rocky grinned. “Maybe Marigold is tougher than she looks.”

  Jefferson didn’t say anything. He just stared at me with those unfathomable eyes. Unable to meet his gaze, I turned and feigned interest in Kary, who was still examining every corner of the enormous living room. My heart raced. That thud-thud-thud in my chest warned me I was reacting to his hard-to-ignore masculinity. What was it about him that seemed to set me on fire?

  When Tom finally arrived a little while later, the men sequestered themselves in the den for a briefing on my situation. I was not invited. Just before the door shut, Jeff poked his head out to speak to me.

  “Marigold, I’ve put you in the blue guest room, but go ahead and explore all the rooms. Get a feel for the place.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Something important was going on, I decided. Tom must have found out what happened when the police interviewed Marvin Smith. Maybe they were trying to figure out how to break the bad news to Lincoln.
With a shrug, I got on with my self-directed house tour.

  Stepping past the den, I entered a hallway and came face to face with an experience reminiscent of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I had never seen anything like it. These walls were painted deep, dark purple, embellished by delicate silver damask stenciling that appeared slightly tarnished; the ceiling was covered in silver leaf, reflecting the light from the crystal sconces that illuminated my way. The overwhelmingly vibrant color was interrupted only by the marble floor tiles. Had I tumbled into a rabbit hole? I certainly felt as if I were in some strange subterranean tunnel. I kept going, unsure of what to expect.

  Turning the ornate antique brass knob on the first closed door I came to, I found myself entering another space so dark, I could see nothing. I fumbled along the wall, hoping there was a light switch. A moment later, an enormous candelabrum heavily encrusted with crystal pendants came to life, throwing out such strong light that I had to shield my eyes. Whirling around, I lowered the dimmer switch, until the three tiers of electric candles no longer blazed at their 100-watt capacity.

  “Egad!” Was it the immediate relief from the painful glare of the chandelier or the stunning sight of the decor that made me utter that archaic expression? Maybe a combination of both, I decided, as I gazed around.

  Here, the Louis XVI theme was repeated in the overly lavish decor of what must have been a very grand master suite. The windows were covered in shimmering gold silk drapes, fringed on the ends and topped with matching cornice boxes trimmed in more gold braiding. The gold-and-ivory-striped walls were rather subdued against the hand-painted floral detailing on each of the door panels, but that was nothing in comparison to the ceiling. Tiny song birds kissed cherubs as they carried flowing ribbons through blue skies overhead. It screamed delusions of grandeur. I shuddered at the thought of what furniture the condo’s previous owner must have chosen to use in the room, picturing something worthy of Marie Antoinette. All that was missing was the replica of Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors, I thought. And then I walked into the master bath. There it was.