by Amanda Brown
The grande dame herself, chattering with pleasure in her blithe detached absurdity, had given not a moment’s thought to Edward’s opinion about his marriage. She would as soon have consulted a fish before changing his bowl.
Bunny studied her quarry with a furtive eye, and determined the time was not yet right to strike. She invited Catherine to tell her more about the portrait artist, sighing with satisfaction when she saw Edward’s mother quiver with emotion.
If there was one thing to get old Catherine talking, it was the family portraits, Bunny thought, barely concealing her smug attitude. Even the city mansion, small by the Kirklands’ standards at a mere twenty-one rooms, had two halls and one gallery expressly for the family portraiture. In their house at the Hamptons, the Kirklands kept two prominent rooms on the wing of the house facing Georgica Pond reserved just for the oil portraits of their dogs. Each dog was painted indoors, posed on a velvet pillow by the fireplace, in the courtly style. Their likenesses were logically arranged beside the family portraits, and apart from the sporting art, to emphasize the devotion of this noble family to its great breeds.
Catherine tittered with laughter. “I want you to know this is a first for me, Bunny,” she said, her eyes wide as she smiled to congratulate herself. “Dear old Randolph Kent passed on, you know, and we haven’t used anyone else for the oils in years.” To indicate how dreadfully long they had been using dear old Randolph, Catherine floated a hand across the room as if it had set sail, drawing the word years out for a small eternity.
“I took a chance, dear, on someone new for your wedding portrait. So you’ll have to credit me with a great deal of whimsy!” She set her teacup down and laughed, giving a lovely shake of her fair head. In a habit of old vintage, she shot a quick glance at the footman who stood by the door. He responded with a hearty laugh and an obsequiously eager nod. Catherine smiled, satisfied. The servants were perfectly devoted to her.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Bunny followed suit.
“I’ll say that takes some spunk!” she cheered at Catherine.
“That it does, that it does, my dear,” announced Catherine with a grand nod. She reclined into her tapestried chair with a sigh and set about describing the extent of her spunk and whimsy.
She had hired a portraitist by the name of Quinn Brown, an artist from Newport whom one could not exactly call untried. He had done a half-century of highly regarded work for the Rockefellers, the Mellons, and the Roosevelts, as well as some decidedly lesser pieces that hung in the Frick. He was remarkably talented, and quite a “fanciful character,” Catherine insisted with a giddy raise of her eyebrows.
Bunny knew Quinn well by reputation. Jinks Preston, who had been in Bunny’s book club until she married five years ago, had hired Quinn to do a mural for the tennis court at her house in West Palm Beach. Quinn was commissioned to paint spectators in the stands, styled to imitate crowds at Wimbledon, except with the faces changed to portray all Jinks’s friends. The mural was completed in short order, to Jinks’s delight.
When she noticed the sun-washed mural beginning to fade, however, Jinks invited Quinn back at once to touch up her face. She was well pleased with how her image stood out against her faded mother-in-law, Hester, and directed Quinn to make no further improvements to the mural. Quinn returned every few months to touch up Jinks’s image, and Jinks, like a reverse Dorian Gray, grew younger in the mural with each year. By contrast her mother-in-law, whose pathetic appearance had never been improved, developed horrid sunlit cracks that ran directly through her cheeks.
Bunny smiled with amusement. She was sure Catherine didn’t know that story. Hester Preston was a dear friend of hers who would certainly be at the wedding. Bunny thought with a laugh that Hester would be the only woman she had met in the Hamptons whose face was an improvement over her portrait.
She was glad to know the name of the portrait artist in advance. She’d put a call in to Jinks, inviting her to be a bridesmaid, and drop a hint for Jinks to say a good word about her to Quinn. Quinn could make any face the portrait’s high point; he just needed to know who would make it worth his while.
Just the other day, as Catherine Kirkland had forced Bunny to sit though a viewing of her wedding album, she had seen a young picture of Hester Preston in a sherbet-colored gown, attending Catherine Whitney as a bridesmaid in her 1950 wedding to Horace Kirkland. Bunny had her fill of Catherine’s going-away pictures: her beaming, starlit smile, her queenly silk-gloved hand emerging from the sleeve of her sumptuous fur jacket, waving ta-ta to the humble onlookers as she left for her glorious honeymoon.
How could she be bothered with Catherine’s memory lane when she had courting bouquets arriving every hour at her apartment? This morning’s four-hundred-dollar silver-plated urn filled with lush violet-colored sweet peas, pink roses, and baby’s breath was as disgusting as a heart-shaped box, she had thought with distaste, throwing it upon the avalanche of free arrangements sent by florists in the hopes that Bunny would use them for the wedding and later for her weekly fresh flowers. Vera Wang, Carolina Herrera, and Badgley Mischka had all sent over dresses and shoes, and Van Cleef & Arpels, Cartier, and Harry Winston had sent over representatives with cases of jewelry they would loan to Bunny to adorn her lovely ears and neck on her wedding day. She sighed with pleasure as she realized it would be the last day she would have to borrow anything.
Returning to her senses, Bunny blinked her eyes and smiled winningly at the grande dame who presided at the floodgate of her riches. Edward was Catherine’s only son. In time, Edward’s wife would inherit all her furs, all her diamonds, the houses, the cars! Bunny vowed to find a museum in New Mexico where she could donate the bloody oil paintings, and redo all the houses in her own style. She was so close, so close.
She noticed that Catherine had instructed her servants to draw the curtains on the western window. The sun was bothering her; she appeared to be tired. Bunny caught her breath. Now was the time to strike!
“Do you suggest a wedding portrait or should I have one done later?” she asked, giving Catherine a sweet blink of innocence. She knew she wouldn’t have time to sit for a wedding portrait, especially since she wanted to keep her gown a surprise from everyone.
“Oh, a wedding portrait, in your gown, dear,” Catherine answered firmly. She instructed a servant to refresh their tea, which was done in the prompt and anonymous fashion of the best houses.
Bunny thought quickly. How could she convince Catherine there was no time for a wedding portrait and make her think it was her idea?
“Will you wear your mother’s gown?” Catherine wanted to know. Some of the older heirlooms couldn’t be cut to fit a taller bride, but she imagined that Bunny would fit into Eileen’s gown.
Bunny nearly choked with surprise. “No!” she gasped. The enormous A-line gown that Mother had worn gave the appearance of concealing a life preserver around the hips.
Catherine’s eyes widened.
Bunny caught herself. “I’m afraid,” she said, turning her eyes down demurely, “I would be too emotional if I dared to step into the shoes of my own mother at such a time.”
Catherine swallowed the lump of her own emotion. She leaned over to pat Bunny’s knee. “Dear girl,” she said.
“I’ve actually already commissioned Vera Wang,” Bunny said, describing the dress in terms as traditional as she could come up with. She didn’t mention that her abdomen would be exposed by the gown; that was going to be a surprise. “One more fitting and we’re good to go,” she mentioned casually.
“Already?” Catherine asked with surprise. “Whatever for? I suppose you’ll have it all tucked and tightened again in a year’s time.”
Bunny dropped her head in sadness. Her plan was working perfectly. She picked up her tea, made her hand shake, then set it down again as if overcome by emotion.
“Catherine,” she began, “I don’t know how to say this.”
“What, dear?” said Catherine, leaning toward her with concer
n.
“I need to marry Edward quickly.”
Catherine smiled, touched by the urgency of young love.
“Whatever for?” she asked gently.
Bunny stared directly into her face.
“Edward is falling in love with Becca Reinhart.”
At this suggestion Catherine frowned with displeasure. “The guardian?”
Bunny nodded, widening her eyes to appear frightened.
Catherine sipped her tea, considering the possibility. A smile slowly stretched across her thin lips, and she shook her head.
“Darling,” she reminded Bunny, “she’s Jewish.”
Bunny’s heart beat quickly. Her face flushed as she turned an imploring face to Catherine.
“I know,” she breathed, reaching out to grip the slim oval tapestry on the arm of the old lady’s chair. “That’s just the problem.” Her eyes glinted with a fervor that was at odds with the helplessness she intended, and she swallowed hard.
“Whatever do you mean by that?” Catherine asked crossly.
Bunny took a deep breath. “Well, Catherine, I don’t know this for sure. But I’ve been told, by certain people familiar with this sort of affair, that, well…” She paused again to breathe deeply, as if calming herself. “This is hard to tell you,” she admitted.
Catherine made an impatient motion with her hand. “Get on with it,” she said sharply.
“Well, they say that when a man falls in love with one of those kinds of people…” She paused, filling her chest with air as if to draw together the courage to speak.
“Yes?” Catherine tapped on the table with her teaspoon.
Bunny leaned toward Catherine like a conspirator. “The man falls in love with their whole way of life.”
Catherine gasped. “You don’t mean—”
Bunny nodded gravely. “He’ll convert.”
Catherine clutched her heart. “Not my Edward!”
Bunny’s eyes grew misty. “It could happen, Catherine. I’ve been told—” She paused again, dropping her head to cover a smile.
“What? What?” Catherine prodded her arm with a monogrammed silver teaspoon.
Bunny raised her head. “That he’s taken to eating blintzes.”
Catherine remained still, and for a moment all was silent.
“And latkes,” Bunny added ironically. She had fabricated this.
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” the old lady snapped.
“They’re ethnic foods,” Bunny explained, raising her eyebrows. “Kosher!”
“God bless you,” replied Catherine, clapping for service. The monogrammed linen handkerchief that arrived was so heavily starched it almost cut Bunny’s skin when she raised it to her nose.
Catherine, who had a moment to think, reconsidered the matter of the food. Edward had traveled the world, she explained, and had eaten lots of adventurous things. Perhaps he simply had the explorer’s palette.
Bunny shook her head. “Catherine,” she said, “there’s an old saying that comes to mind. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” She paused, then spoke gravely. “The blintzes are only the first step. Those people won’t stop until they make Edward one of them.”
Catherine’s eyes widened as she imagined Edward fiddling on the roof. She shuddered, set her teacup down on its saucer, and stared at Bunny’s grave face.
Suddenly she shook her head. “I’ll have to ask Morton about this. He’s been doing our taxes for thirty years, and I can’t say he’s ever tried to turn us into his kind of people.”
Bunny gulped. She had to think fast. “Professional courtesy,” she pointed out.
Catherine, who knew nothing of the working world, nodded. “I see.”
“I know this is hard for you to face,” Bunny urged, “but if Edward doesn’t marry me soon, you’ll see him next at his bar mitzvah.”
The sound of this guttural phrase gave Catherine a shiver, and she hung her head.
“How soon?”
“Two weeks,” said Bunny. Hastily, she added, “at my house in the Hamptons.”
Catherine raised her eyes to Bunny’s, saw that she was serious, and obliged. The new ways were so fast; everyone rushed about these days, with their blinking phones and computers. She supposed it was for the best. But the child would not get away with everything, she thought, noticing Bunny’s eyes seemed happier than they should.
Bunny had reached for her teacup to take a drink. Catherine reached her arm across the tea table and set her hand firmly on the gold-rimmed cup, pressing it back into the saucer. Staring stonily at her future daughter-in-law, she kept her hand over the steam that rose from the tea. She held it in place to prevent Bunny from drinking.
With narrowed eyes, she challenged Bunny.
“You may have your wedding in two weeks,” Catherine allowed, “but it will be at my house in the Hamptons.”
Bunny’s eyes met Catherine’s with a glare. She was the bride!
Catherine stared without flinching, holding the teacup in place even as Bunny reached for it.
“Of course,” Bunny managed. “That would be delightful. You have such a lovely home.”
Catherine lifted her hand, allowing Bunny to drink her tea.
I’ll have to tell Adrian, Bunny sighed to herself. She had already given her wedding coordinator, Adrian Parish, the measurements of all her party rooms. He was so precise he had asked for the grading angle of the lawn down to Georgica Pond. Now Adrian would have to spend a day chasing the Kirklands’ house staff for details, just now when they couldn’t spare a minute of time! She glared at Catherine, who was staring at her sternly. This was no way to start their relationship. She had to make her own power play.
“I’ve already engaged a wedding coordinator,” she announced.
Catherine’s expression told her she had made a mistake.
“What in the bloody hell is a wedding coordinator?”
Bunny recalled that Catherine had been married in 1950, back when a girl counted on her mother’s social secretary and private house staff to put the event together.
She swallowed hard. “He’s, uh—like a florist.”
Catherine’s hard blue eyes stared straight at her as she spoke in a low, even voice.
“Thank you, dear, but I have a lovely florist,” she said. “We always use him for family events.”
Bunny sipped her tea and nodded. She breathed deeply before she spoke.
“Of course, Catherine. I’m sure Adrian and your florist will work together beautifully.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “Together?”
Bunny gave a warm laugh. “Oh, Catherine, I’m sure I didn’t explain myself well. Adrian is not so much a florist, really, so to speak: he’s more on the arranging than the procuring side of things, you see. He works with florists all the time.”
“With?” Catherine looked at her suspiciously.
Bunny swallowed her pride. “For,” she corrected herself, looking at the sumptuous gold-toned Turkomen carpet.
Catherine nodded with satisfaction.
“Fine, dear.” She felt an outpouring of graciousness now that she knew her people would be managing Bunny’s people. “How appropriate, to have our staff work together,” she offered smugly.
“Yes, Catherine, how wonderful.” Bunny took the opportunity to notice the grandfather clock in the corner. “Oh dear, the time has just flown! Catherine, I must be off. Thank you for this lovely tea.” She stood from her chair and motioned for the servant to clear her tea service.
Catherine motioned for the same servant to stay put.
Swept by the noblesse oblige that accompanied her successful shows of power, Catherine rose from her chair and, following Bunny to the north portrait hall, laid a cool hand on Bunny’s shoulder.
“Roberta, darling,” she said, surprising Bunny by using the formal name she loathed.
“Yes, Catherine?”
“I’d like you to call me Mum.” Catherine beamed as she said th
is, as if she had just opened a tower door to release a prisoner in a grand show of mercy.
Bunny cringed, but with an effective exercise of control turned her disgust into the little twinkle of nose that precedes a giggle. She laughed merrily.
“Oh, Mum, what an honor!” she said, leaping forward to embrace Catherine, which gave her a quick opportunity to relax the sore smiling muscles of her face.
CHAPTER 19
Sunday Times
Becca had taken Emily to shop for Halloween costumes, after which they planned to change their clothes for a “girls’ dinner” at someplace fancy. The idea of changing her clothes for dinner had Emily absolutely entranced. For a child of only four, she had an astounding mental inventory of her closet.
The simple mention of one of Edward’s charity events would send her racing down the hall to her bedroom, in a great show of pretending that she was invited. When she returned, holding her chin high in the air and half-closing her eyes to display her importance, she would invariably be trailing two different outfits in her soft little hands. One would be a sweeping gown—perhaps a lilac taffeta Florence Eisemann, for example, empire-waisted and altogether dreamy. In the other hand she would tug her Lily Pulitzer bolero jacket, together with something chic—her magenta pantsuit, perhaps, with the rainbow-beaded ankles.
Emily would sigh a thousand sighs, casting both outfits on the couch in front of the smiling, indulgent eyes of Edward and Becca. “I just can’t decide,” she would tell them. Emily didn’t know the debt her mannerisms owed to this urbane little corner of the world, the unbearably put-upon Upper East Side, but her guardians did, and they laughed tears. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and earned a great deal of sympathy. Emily felt very grown-up and accomplished when she talked about her clothes. Youth reveals its innocence in the modesty of its dreams.
Edward had plans to attend the Tartan Tango, an odd, festival-style medley of kilts and red lipstick that had occupied the same October weekend for so many years that, like the luau for Madagascar’s Oyster Growers, repetition had dulled its sheer ridiculousness. It was always held the first Sunday in October; Edward, as usual, had done a table.
