by Kwan, Kevin
“Compared with just about anywhere. I needed a good swell, but beggars can’t be choosers.” George shrugged.
Lucie rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m sorry our beach doesn’t meet your standards!”
“I never said that. You asked a question, I answered honestly.”
Ugh. Why did I overreact like that? Lucie kicked herself, as she tried to extend an olive branch. “I guess you must miss the beaches in California …”
“I didn’t actually surf much when I was up at Berkeley. No time. But I do miss the Sydney beaches, and the North Shore.”
“Oahu?”
“Yeah, we have a house there.”
“I remember your mom telling me. How often do you get back there?”
“These days about once a year if I’m lucky.”
“So why’d you move to New York in the first place? Surely you could have worked somewhere with better beaches.”
“I’ve always wanted to work with this firm. They’re committed to creating consciously designed, affordable, sustainable spaces for working-class communities. I know that’s something you might not understand.”
Lucie frowned. “Why would you say that? Because you think I only work with rich people?”
George gave a half smirk. “You said it, not me.”
“Look, many of my clients may be wealthy, but artists need to make a living. Most of the work I do is to connect collectors to young emerging artists who need all the support they can get. Especially female artists and minority artists—I’m on their side, I do everything I can to help boost their careers. I try to get their work placed with the most worthy, thoughtful collectors I know, so that hopefully their art will get the sort of notice it deserves.”
“Sorry if I misunderstood. Freddie might have given me the wrong impression at lunch the other day,” George offered contritely.
“Well, Freddie does a great job trivializing what I do. He’s such an armchair socialist. It’ll be interesting to see what he ends up doing with his life.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he benefits from all sorts of privileges I’ll never have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s a man, for starters, and his genetic lottery numbers came in the day he was born. With his floppy Keanu Reeves hair and my dad’s features, most people don’t even realize he’s got a drop of Chinese blood in him. He’s grown up with all the privileges of being a male Churchill. This entire town caters to men like him. He’s a legacy at Princeton and he’s a shoo-in for any of the private men’s clubs he wants to join.”
“Are there still private clubs in New York that don’t allow women in?”
“You better believe it! You know, there’s an old exclusive men’s club that was finally forced to let women in. Do you know what they did? They sneakily changed the menu so that the dishes that appealed to women would be awful. They made all the salads, the fish, the chicken—all lighter fare—purposely disgusting, hoping it would turn off the ladies and discourage them from joining. They kept the steaks and the burgers good, for the guys.”
“Ha! That’s evil. Still, Freddie’s a good bloke. If he’s a member of all these old stuffy clubs, I think he’ll be a great advocate for change.”
“Of course he will. I adore my brother, but still, it’s not easy being related to that charmer. You know what happened once? We were in our elevator, coming home from the gym. I was in my workout clothes, holding a big paper sack with takeout. Some lady got into the elevator with us, obviously a visitor, and she smiled at me and asked, ‘Do you get good tips?’”
George stared blankly at Lucie. “What did she mean?”
“Well, I had no clue either, but when Freddie started laughing hysterically, I finally figured it out. The lady thought I was delivering food. Like I was some Chinese delivery girl. That’s always the story with me, but no one would ever mistake Freddie for the help.”
George shook his head, appalled. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. “Hey, do you know any artists who might want to create a big outdoor mural? We’re redoing this children’s park up in the Bronx, and I think it could use a mural that maybe starts on a wall but extends along the ground and onto the skate ramp. We don’t have a huge budget, but I think it could be good exposure for the artist.”
“Are you kidding? I know about a hundred artists who would leap at the opportunity,” Lucie said excitedly.
“All right then. I’ll have my people call your people.”
They both stared out at the ocean for a few moments, until Lucie decided to speak up again. “I think it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry if I seemed a little prickly earlier … it’s just that Ditch Plains is a pretty special place to me. My father used to take me out here all the time when I was little. He was friends with the owner of East Deck Motel, this wonderful old place that used to be across from the parking lot, and so he’d bring me out here to this beach all the time. It’s where he taught me how to swim in the ocean …”
“I’m sorry if I insulted your beach. My pa taught me how to swim in the ocean too, at Coogee.”
Lucie took a deep breath and ventured to say something that had been on her mind all week. “You know, when you were in my art studio, you said something about a painting that really struck me.”
“The white one?”
“Yes, the white painting. Looking at it afterward gave me a vivid flashback to how my father had died. He had a heart attack at home, right in front of me, and I guess it was something I had completely erased from my memory until the other day.”
George stared deeply into her eyes. “How old were you?”
“Eight.”
“My father died when I was sixteen. He’d been ill a long time, but it was still terrible to see him fading away at the end. It took me years to get over it, not that one really gets over it. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you at that age.”
“I completely blocked it out. I mean, I knew he’d had a heart attack, but until the other day I hadn’t realized I was actually there.”
George pondered her words and then looked her in the face. “Gosh, and then what happened on the piazzetta in Capri. No wonder you had to run …”
Lucie closed her eyes for a moment, saying nothing. They sat quietly like this for a few minutes, and as Lucie looked out at the undulating waves of the ocean, slate gray against the stark blue sky, she casually remarked, “This isn’t quite the view from Casa Malaparte, but I’ve always loved it. It’s where I learned to surf.”
George turned to Lucie in surprise. “Wait a minute, you surf?”
“Of course I do.”
“Really? Why haven’t I ever seen you surfing out here?”
Lucie looked up at George. “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t waste my time. It’s flatter than the duck pond in Central Park. You’d have to be Malibu Barbie to catch waves out here.”
George let out a laugh.
“Speaking of which …,” Lucie said, as she tilted her head toward a statuesque blond girl paddling back to the shore.
The girl emerged from the water as if she were doing her best imitation of a James Bond girl and sauntered up to them with her surfboard just as George got up, planted a quick kiss on her cheek, and handed her his towel.
“Lucie, this is Viv.”
“Hi,” Lucie greeted her in surprise, staring at the intricate dragon tattoo on her arm.
“Hallo,” Viv said in a gravelly Swedish accent.
“How do you know each other?” Lucie inquired.
“Oh, we met a few weeks ago. Viv was doing a shoot for Harper’s Bazaar out at the Point,” George answered.
“Resort-wear bikinis,” Viv added.
“Of course,” Lucie smirked.
“Um … Lucie’s an old friend,” George said to Viv.
“How nice to have old friends,” Viv said to Lucie, before turning to George. “Come home for breakfast?”
“Sure,” George replied, as he
nodded goodbye to Lucie, picked up his surfboard, and walked off with the girl.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Saint Luke’s Place
Greenwich Village
Overheard in the canal room …
“You, Cecil Pike, are a visionary. This is Venice in the twenty-second century, that’s what this is! If Carlos de Beistegui were alive, he would be foaming at the mouth with jealousy!”
“A canal flowing through a West Village town house! Only you could have imagined this, Cecil! When I saw the gondola floating across your living room out to the garden, I thought for sure I was tripping on mushrooms.”
“Cecil! This is the most fabulous housewarming party I’ve ever been to. Is that Samin Nosrat cooking in the kitchen? OMG, I’m about to fangirl all over her!”
“Comme cette maison est illustre, Cecil. C’est exquis! Le summum du chic! J’emménage immédiatement.”
“Mon dieu, quell compliment venant de vous, chère comtesse. J’en suis profondément honoré!”
“I’ll tell you one thing, I haven’t seen anything this original since the Hilma show at the Guggenheim.”
“Cecil, I hope you’re not planning on raising your kids here. Because I can just picture my future nephew or niece crawling off that mezzanine with no railing and falling headfirst into the canal.”
“Freddie, that’s why I hired the gondoliers to be full-time. They will double as lifeguards.”
“A Yayoi Kusama Infinity Mirror powder room! How in the world did you pull that off, Cecil?”
“Are you Lucie? Cecil told me you’re responsible for curating all the art here. To place the Kehinde Wiley and the Lucian Freud facing each other in the library—genius, pure genius. Here, let’s follow each other on Instagram!”
“Cecil, what will it take for you to let us do a feature on the house?”
“You’re too kind, Martina. But you know how private my family is. We don’t ever let our houses be photographed.”
Overheard in the mezzanine screening room …
“Oh my god, Lucie, guess what? Martina wants to feature the house in Cabana!”
“Really? How cool.”
“I’m playing hard to get. I’ll let her feature the house, but I want to make sure she puts me on the cover!”
“If that’s what it takes to get the story, I’m sure she’ll oblige you.”
“Actually, it should be the both of us on the cover together. In this room. Sitting on the gondola.”
“Um, we can talk about that later.”
“Lucie, is that your mother over there talking to Hanya Yanagihara?”
“Yes.”
“Do me the favor of removing her, please, before she says something stupid. Do you know what I heard her say to Bruce Weber? She said, ‘Oh, I looove the photo you took of Lucie! I put it up on my fridge!’”
“I don’t see what harm there was in that, Cecil. She was only trying to pay him a compliment.”
“Lucie, that’s like saying to Michelangelo, ‘Oh, I put your little sculpture in the garden next to my plastic gnomes!’”
“Cecil, be nice.”
“I am being nice. I’m saving your mother from embarrassing herself.”
Overheard in the library …
“You know what I love about new money? They serve superb wine at their parties, because they are always trying to impress. And you know my policy: I only drink if it’s very, very expensive wine and somebody else is paying.”
“Ho ho ho! Mordecai, you’re terrible! All the same, this is a lovely d’Yquem.”
“Not as lovely as this little Vuillard. It sits so perfectly on this broken easel.”
“But why is the easel broken?”
“Well, Robert broke it, of course. You know how he is. Every room he’s done must look like it’s not done, as if it had been abandoned half a century ago by some consumptive aristocrats who could no longer afford firewood.”
“Don’t tell me the coffee stains on this Oushak aren’t real?”
“Oh, Robert has the best coffee spiller anywhere. Diego, an absolute genius. Makes every stain look like it’s been there for generations. He’s particularly good at faking dog stains on old chintz. You know, so it looks like your Rhodesian ridgeback has drooled all over that chaise longue for years and years.”
“Hmm … I didn’t realize Robert had a hand in all this. I thought Axel did it.”
“Axel did the kitchens, the spa, and the glorious canal room; Francois did the screening room and the bedrooms; and Robert did the drawing room and the library.”
“Cecil had three of the most expensive designers in the world on retainer?”
“Four, including yours truly. I helped with everything from the Cycladic period, of course.”
“Well, I hope you made out like a bandit. Cheers to you, Mordecai!”
“And cheers to Lucie Churchill, that lucky girl. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on her in Capri she’d make a terrific match, although it turns out I failed to bet on the winning horse.”
“Oooh. Pray tell?”
Overheard in the kitchen …
“Cecil, tell me, where are the appliances? Your kitchen looks like a Zen rock garden.”
“Marian, first of all this is the show kitchen, not the real kitchen in the basement where the real cooking is done. Everything here is centered on the principles of wabi-sabi, about a oneness with things. See this black river rock from Wajima? You just wave your hand over the diagonal slit in the rock, and voilà!”
“Sweet Jesus, what’s that coming out of the floor? Is that the dishwasher?”
“No, it’s a truffle vault. Axel put the dishwashers in the china room.”
“Holy moly! Wait till Charlotte sees this! Can I please bring her over when she’s here?”
“God help us—Charlotte is coming back to New York?”
“She’s back for a visit next month, didn’t you know?”
“Marian, please don’t tell me she’s staying with you in East Hampton.”
“Of course she is.”
“Well, I shall make myself very scarce.”
“Mom, does Charlotte really have to stay with us? You know how Cecil gets around her. When we were in London he broke out in hives the day she tried to take us to some hot new restaurant in Maida Vale.”
“Was it really Charlotte that caused his hives, or was he having an allergic reaction to something he ate?”
“Well, I do get a migraine whenever I’m forced to go outside of Zone 1, but I think it’s safe to say I have a Charlotte Barclay allergy. It’s not as bad as my allergy to South African wines, but it’s an allergy nonetheless.”
Overheard in the china room …
“Wah! Three separate dishwashers for different types of china. What a house!”
“It’s actually three town houses put together, Mrs. Zao.”
“I suspected as much. It must be the biggest house in New York, yes?”
“It’s big, but I’m sure there’s something bigger. The thing about the superrich is that they always need more space with no people in it.”
“You always know everything, Freddie. Three dishwashers! Three town houses! And here I can’t even find a simple flat for myself in New York.”
“I didn’t know you were looking for a place in the city, Mrs. Zao.”
“Now that George got a promotion at his firm and will be designing this new apartment complex in Queens that’s made only of recycled trash, it looks like he will be staying for a while. So I think I must get a place in the city for myself. I don’t want to be in that big Shittinghurst in the winter, and I can’t keep on staying with him at his apartment … How will he ever find a girlfriend if his mother is there all the time?”
“You’re a wise woman, Mrs. Zao. Sometimes it gets a bit tricky when I bring girls home. They all end up wanting to chat with my mom! What sort of place are you looking for?”
“Well, I like the older buildings here, like the Dakota one where John Lennon lived. W
hat do you call them? Pre-bomb?”
“Prewar, Mrs. Zao.”
“Yes. I don’t need anything too big for myself—just four or five bedrooms will do.”
“You know there’s an apartment that’s about to go on sale in our building? The old lady who owned it had lived there since the thirties but preferred to spend the last twenty-five years living in Beth Israel Hospital, even though she was in perfect health. It’s beautiful, like a time capsule with all the period details intact—I got a chance to sneak in and see it last week when the realtors were taking photos.”
“Really? I love your building!”
“In fact, I have the realtor’s card in my wallet right here …”
“Freddie, you really need to get a new wallet. That thing is falling apart.”
“I know. But I can’t bear to change it. It was my father’s.”
Overheard in the pool room …
“It’s entirely eco-friendly and organic, George. It’s a self-sustaining system: the fish droppings in the koi pond fertilize the aquatic plants in the reflecting pool, which in turn create biological filters that clean the water in the lap pool.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen natural swimming pools like this before.”
“Why do I get the sense that you’re not impressed?”
“It’s very impressive, Lucie. I’ve never seen a trilevel infinity pool of such scale, two stories underground.”
“Cecil’s very proud of it. He spent a year obsessing over every detail of the pool—it was his idea to make it glass-bottomed so you could see right into the wine cellar.”
“It’s very clever. He can stare at all his pinot noirs while he’s swimming the butterfly.”
“Or maybe we can invite Viv over and you can stare at her tattoos while she does the backstroke.”
“Viv was on the Swedish national swim team. I’m sure she’d love to use this pool.”
“It wasn’t a real invitation, George. I was just responding to your snide remark. I know you don’t care for this house.”
“How have I given you that impression?”
“I see the way you’re staring at everything in disapproval.”