Still, when she took her first bite, she decided the trip it had made was worth it. The moist, tender morsel tasted like butter in crustacean form.
“It's expensive, but I can't resist indulging my man,” Carly cooed. “Lobster is one of Brett's favorites.”
“It's true,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I'm afraid my wife spoils me something awful. She's the one who insists that even mountain folk like us should enjoy lobster once a week. Even if it costs us more than the payments on the Rolls.”
“Oooh, you know you deserve it!” Carly cried, her voice ascending a few octaves as she lapsed into baby talk. “You deserve anything your widdle heart desires.” Winking conspiratorially at Mallory, she said, “Brett's the love of my life. Number three—but at least I finally got it right! Didn't I, Mr. Huggy-Poo?”
Mallory forced a smile, even though she would have been tempted to retch if the lobster lollipops hadn't looked so darned tempting. This was one of the countless times in the past few months that she desperately wished David was with her. She could just picture the expression that would have been on his face as they'd exchanged horrified yet amused looks over the dinner table.
“The Bermans’ guests always eat well,” Gordon commented. “Maybe that's why I can't keep away.”
“Gordon lives in L.A,” Carly explained. Fortunately, she was back to talking like a grownup.
“Goodness, you didn't fly in just for dinner, did you?” Mallory burst out before she could stop herself. She already felt like a hayseed, largely because she generally thought of lobster as a special occasion food that could only be served with champagne and a cake that had words written on it.
“Not this time,” Gordon replied.
To hide how impressed she was that anyone she'd graduated with knew someone who ever flew to Colorado all the way from California just for dinner, Mallory took another bite of the succulent, perfectly cooked lobster. As if the meat itself wasn't something out of a seafood-lover's fantasy, the delicate sauce dripping off it raised the concept of appetizers to an entirely new level.
“To be perfectly honest, the food is just a bonus,” Gordon went on. Smiling mysteriously, he added, “I actually have an ulterior motive for allowing Carly and Brett to wine and dine me.”
“And here I thought you simply enjoyed our company, Gordo,” Brett said with a smirk.
Mallory glanced around the table, suddenly feeling as if she'd found herself on the outside of an inside joke.
“Are you in the—uh, a similar type of business, Gordon?” Mallory realized she didn't know exactly how to refer to the industry in which Carly had made her name. Health food? Vitamin supplements? Beauty aids?
Snake oil?
Carly answered for him. “Gordon is in a much more glamorous line of work. He's a film director.”
“Really!” This time, Mallory figured she was entitled to sound impressed. “What kind of films?”
“The big-budget Hollywood kind,” Brett boomed before his guest had a chance to respond. “Tell her the titles of some of the movies you've made, Gordo.”
“I'm sure Mallory isn't interested in hearing my life story,” Gordon said dryly, staring into his glass. “She's just being polite.”
Mallory was surprised to see a slight flush rise to his cheeks. From what she'd heard, directors had the largest egos in Hollywood—no small distinction in a place like Tinsel Town where egos routinely grew bigger than the Hollywood Bowl. So she couldn't imagine why Gordon would be the least bit reluctant to dazzle her with his list of film credits.
“This is no time to be modest, Gordo my man!” Brett insisted. “Here, I'll do it for you.” He rattled off the names of a half dozen movies. She not only recognized them; she also remembered that they had starred such big-name actors as Burt Reynolds, Jill Clayburgh, Ryan O'Neal, and George C. Scott.
It took her a second or two to realize that while all the actors who had starred in Gordon Swig's movies were famous, their superstardom dated back at least thirty years.
Which meant Gordon Swig was—for lack of a more graceful word—a has-been.
“How exciting!” Mallory remarked graciously. “I've seen every one of those movies.”
“Then you must own a DVD player,” Gordon replied with a sardonic smile.
“Gordon's gotten into some other things in more recent years,” Carly said, answering the awkward question, “So what have you done lately?” that hung in the air.
Fortunately, Juanita chose that moment to make another grand entrance.
“How ees lobster candy?” she asked, putting her hands on her broad hips and glancing around the table expectantly. “Ees good?”
“Lobster lollipops,” Carly corrected her. “And they were excellent, as usual.”
Juanita's eyebrows shot up as if receiving a compliment from the lady of the house was as much of a rarity around here as Dress-Down Friday.
“Then I bring out the next course,” she said as she began collecting plates.
What next? Mallory wondered. Lamb flown over from New Zealand—in first class?
Even though she was off by a few thousand miles, she wasn't disappointed that the evening's entrée turned out to be elk. True, it was so local that she could picture the main course while it was still on four legs, frolicking on the mountainside with those goats she'd been imagining not long before. But she'd already learned that the cuisine chez Berman was, indeed, worth flying in from L.A. for.
“So what about you, Mallory?” Gordon asked pleasantly as he passed her a massive plate piled high with slabs of meat. “What brings you to Aspen?”
“I'm a travel writer.” Mallory realized that even after four months on the job, she still surprised herself every time she said those words. “I'm doing an article on Aspen for a publication called The Good Life.
“In fact,” she said, nervously glancing at Carly, “I'm hoping that Carly won't mind being the main focus. I want to write about why entrepreneurs who target an upscale clientele choose Aspen as the location for their businesses, as opposed to Beverly Hills or Palm Beach or Greenwich. We have a meeting at Tavaci Springs set up for Thursday, and I'm hoping she'll agree to an in-depth interview that goes a bit beyond the usual questions and routine answers.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Gordon said, nodding. “And perfect for The Good Life. It's a magazine I know well. In fact, it's gotten me through many an otherwise boring plane ride.”
“That's because Gordo's flying coach these days, instead of in his own plane,” Brett wisecracked.
Carly cast her husband a dirty look. Gordon pretended not to notice either the comment or the expression.
“And I assume your article is geared toward skiers…?” he commented.
“Actually, I'm targeting nonskiers.” Mallory patted her mouth with her napkin. She'd suddenly found herself the focus of everyone's attention, and the last thing she wanted was to be caught with elk juice dripping down her chin. “I'm trying to find out if a visitor can have a good time in Aspen without setting foot—or ski boot—on a mountain.”
“And what's your conclusion so far?” Gordon asked.
“Mallory only got here this afternoon,” Carly explained , sounding a tad cross. Mallory wondered if it was because she hadn't been the center of attention for at least three minutes. “She just checked into the Jerome a few hours ago. And I haven't given her a chance to do any sightseeing. As soon as she called me to say she was in town, I insisted that she come to dinner. She's coming to tonight's presentation, too.”
Smiling at Mallory prettily, she added, “As for that interview, I'll make sure I set aside enough time on Thursday to give you whatever information you need. I'd be happy to be the focus of your article.”
“What a surprise,” Juanita mumbled before picking up the last of the plates and vanishing back into the kitchen.
Surprisingly, Mallory didn't share Juanita's cynicism. In fact, she couldn't have been more pleased.
I got what I came for, she
thought happily. Even more important, I got what I promised Trevor.
She knew, of course, that her next challenge would be getting Carly to let down her guard. She hoped to get past her defenses and uncover something more about what made this successful Aspen entrepreneur tick. Her ups and downs, any personal demons that may have plagued her along the way, events in her past, both positive and negative, that had gotten her to this point…
It could have been the wine—or perhaps just her burgeoning confidence—but at the moment Mallory felt completely confident that she'd be able to deliver.
Maybe Carly was voted Most Likely to Succeed, she thought with satisfaction. But this onetime classmate of hers isn't doing too badly herself.
“All journeys have secret destinations
of which the traveler is unaware.”
—Martin Buber
Rather than gathering around the fireplace for brandy, the evening's after-dinner activity consisted of the Bermans and their two guests taking the Rolls into downtown Aspen for Carly's eight o'clock presentation at the Wheeler Opera House.
Brett drove, insisting that there was no reason why his chauffeur should have all the fun. He parked the elegant silver car half a block away from the theater, maneuvering it so that it took up not one but two parking spaces.
As the foursome headed toward the entrance—Carly taking the lead with her husband trailing after her, Mallory and Gordon lagging a few paces behind—Mallory was shocked by the size of the crowd streaming inside. Scores of men and women, almost all of them old enough to remember when Eisenhower was president, pushed their way into the small lobby on the first floor. They chattered away, exhibiting the same excitement they'd probably felt when they'd seen the Stones in concert for the first time—or in some cases, Frank Sinatra. It wasn't until that point that she realized just how popular Carly was. Or at least her claim that she had the ability to restore youth.
“I'm going backstage,” Carly informed them when they reached the double doors that opened onto the small lobby. “I have to do my breathing exercises before I go onstage.”
“I'll come with you,” Brett offered. “We need a few minutes to go over the introduction.”
As Carly charged off toward a back stairway with Brett in tow, Mallory turned to Gordon.
“In that case,” she said, “we might as well go inside and find seats.”
“If you don't mind, I think I'm going to bow out,” he replied, glancing longingly at the door. “I've seen Carly's dog-and-pony show before. Besides, she's not the only one who's putting on a show tonight. So are the Nuggets.” Smiling sheepishly, he explained, “I'm kind of addicted to basketball.”
“What about your car?” Mallory asked. “Isn't it still at the Bermans’?”
“I'll catch up with all of you later,” he said with a wink. “That way, Carly will never even know that I spent the evening watching the Lakers take on her home team instead of watching a rerun of the Rejuva-Juice story.”
“Have fun,” she told him, not letting on that she was disappointed that she'd be sitting in the audience alone.
As she trudged up the stairs with all the other attendees, once again Mallory noted that, not surprisingly, Carly's audience consisted largely of in dividuals who had reached a point in their lives at which old age was no longer an abstract concept. But even in the case of those who appeared to have glided into middle age only recently, most had put at least some effort into looking younger than the number of candles on their last birthday cake would indicate. The women had colored their hair to banish the gray, and a few wore perpetually surprised expressions that said they were no stranger to facelifts. While fewer men were in the crowd streaming upstairs, the ones who'd turned out for the evening tended to be unusually trim, as if their way of warding off the ravages of time was by befriending a Nautilus exercise machine.
But she forgot all about the audience as soon as she walked into the opera house. It was much bigger than she expected, and considerably more grand. The thick velvet on the seats was a rich shade of red, as were the carpets and the curtain on the large wood-framed stage. Exposed beams covered the ceiling, which was painted the same deep blue as the walls. In back was a curved balcony bordered by a low wooden balustrade, its distinctive look a reminder that the theater had originated back in the days of the Wild West.
After Mallory found a seat, she remembered that she still had her guidebook in her purse. Opening it to the page she'd marked with a bright orange Post-it and labeled “Local Sights,” she skimmed the section on the Wheeler Opera House.
Like the Hotel Jerome, it had been built by Jerome Byron Wheeler. It opened in 1889, bringing culture to a town that was only ten short years away from attracting the very first prospectors. The interior included a grand stairway with a gleaming wooden balustrade, a retiring room for ladies, and hand-painted frescoes on the walls and ceiling.
The theater also featured state-of-the-art lighting, including an elegant handmade chandelier constructed of hammered brass and silver. It was covered with more than thirty lights, each one shielded with a flower-shaped shade. The curtain, made by a well-known opera house scenery painter from Chicago, was designed by two New Yorkers and featured the Brooklyn Bridge spanning a river crowded with ships from all over the globe.
During its first five years, the Wheeler pre sented concerts, lectures, vaudeville shows, and Shakespearean plays. But after the silver crash of 1893, Wheeler went bankrupt. What hurt most was losing his crown jewel: the opera house. It remained standing, but its productions became considerably more modest. Instead of concerts and plays, it hosted events such as town meetings in which locals no doubt bemoaned the fall of their beloved town.
Then, in 1912, two major fires ravaged the Wheeler. While electrical problems caused the first, the second, which occurred only nine days later, was attributed to arsonists. The flames were so intense that they melted the famous chandelier.
It wasn't until the 1960s and 1970s that the opera house was restored, and a crystal chandelier was added. In 1984, more extensive restoration was completed, and the Wheeler Opera House was finally returned to its former glory. Once again it became an important cultural center, featuring a variety of performances just as it had in its original glory days: opera, ballet, concerts, Broadway plays, films, and lectures, including the one that Carly Cassidy Berman, one of Aspen's brightest stars, was giving tonight.
Mallory tucked the book back into her purse and glanced at her watch. When she saw she still had some time before the show started, she decided it would be fun to find Carly and wish her luck. Sneaking backstage would also give her an excuse to see what the rest of the building looked like. She was all set to say “Break a leg” until she reminded herself that that might not be the most appropriate expression in a ski town.
She draped her jacket over the back of her chair to save her seat and then went back into the hallway. She wandered around until she found a door marked Dressing Room, tucked behind the stage.
Mallory was about to knock when she heard voices on the other side of the door. Loud voices. So loud, in fact, that she knew immediately that while only an hour ago Carly and Brett had practically thrown off their clothes right at the table to express their undying love for both lobster and each other, at the moment they were engaged in a heated argument.
“How can you even think that?” she heard Carly screech. “For heaven's sake, Brett. I thought you understood!”
“You're not listening to a word I say,” Brett countered, his deep voice booming through the closed door. “As usual. You think you know the answer to everything, Carly. Why can't we ever discuss things the way other couples do?”
Mallory slunk away, embarrassed. While she hadn't set eyes on Carly Cassidy for years, in the last three hours she'd learned more about her than she ever wanted to know.
She sank into her seat, relieved that she'd scuttled away without being discovered. Almost immediately the house lights dimmed, enabling her to focus
on Carly as she wanted to be seen.
But it wasn't Carly who stepped onto the stage. It was her husband.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you all for coming,” Brett began. He stood next to the lectern, rather than behind it, with one hand in his pocket. He appeared as comfortable onstage as if he were still standing in his own living room. In fact, he looked as if he were about to deliver the opening monologue on his own television talk show. There was certainly no indication of his altercation with Carly just a few minutes before.
“It is with the greatest pleasure that I introduce our speaker for this evening,” Brett continued, his powerful voice resonating through the theater. “She is an amazing woman who not only is a dynamic speaker, but also happens to be my wife.” He paused to let the audience's polite laughter die down. “But in addition, Carly Cassidy Berman is living proof that the nutritional supplement she's about to tell you about, Rejuva-Juice, really works.”
For a moment, Mallory felt as if she was listening to P.T. Barnum introduce his latest find, doing a great job of convincing everyone that what they were about to see truly was a “Feejee Mermaid” when the grotesque creature on display was actually the upper part of a monkey stitched to the bottom half of a fish.
But P. T. Barnum's bizarre attraction was a far cry from the beautiful, confident woman who strode onto the stage, instantly mesmerizing her audience. Carly looked even more radiant than before. Her eyes were bright and her lips, refreshed with darker, shinier lipstick, twitched eagerly as if she couldn't wait to tell the rapt crowd all about the wonders of Rejuva-Juice. Even though she floated across the stage with all the grace of a ballerina—or at least a former cheerleader—at the same time she managed to emanate an amazing amount of energy.
Being in the spotlight certainly agrees with her, Mallory thought with a twinge of jealousy She fought it off by reminding herself that personally, she'd take hiding in the wings over standing on a stage any day.
Too Rich and Too Dead Page 5
