Then? Crickets. There isn’t much out there about her life after the trial. That’s because Spider’s family filed a civil suit against her. She settled it out of court, with the agreement that she would never give an interview or write a book about her story (which is its own tragedy).
The one place I could still hear her voice was on her albums. A few were on Spotify but I tracked down all the vinyl. I lit candles and slow-danced by myself on top of the Santa Monica rental’s kitchen counters.
My favorite was Love Is Blue. Listening to it was like gently spreading out your existential crisis as if it were a leisurely picnic lunch. It made me feel better about losing Liam. It made me feel less alone. And thinking about Claudine still living in Aspen, growing old, made me desperately want to be there too.
So I hopped on Zillow and was like, “Show me my new home in Aspen, please.” That’s how I found Montague House.
Montague House
Rare find. Sold by original owner. Luxurious seven-bedroom, ten-bathroom modern Swiss chalet atop high mesa flats. Remarkable panoramic views of all four ski areas and downtown Aspen. Thoughtfully designed by esteemed architect. Open floor plan. An art lovers delight with vast walls and vaulted ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Environmentally conscious construction, built predominantly with locally sourced materials. Four indoor fireplaces. Billiards room. Screening room. Generous outdoor areas. Tiered decks. Hot tub. Firepits. Perfect for both solitude and entertaining. | $18,995,000 | 15,000 SQ FT
The pictures were incredible. Majestic. And, most important, so very different than the place I was living. Being on tour, which is where I usually am, means not being home. Which means not having much furniture. My house was beautiful but cold. Lots of mid-century modern furniture, but not enough throw blankets. This may sound pathetic, but this Montague House looked like it could take care of me. A place where you never had to wear shoes; you just ran around sliding from room to room on wooden floors in fuzzy socks. Yes! This could take all the pain away. Looking at those pictures, I knew it had been built with a caring hand. I needed a caring hand. I clicked the “Contact Agent” button.
That’s when I saw the Realtor’s name.
Claudine.
Her name was Claudine Calhoun. I freaked out. It couldn’t have been a clearer sign. I didn’t even wait for my assistant to come in, I called myself. It was on. I’d see the house, experience some holiday cheer, and immerse myself in Aspen. I was even excited about the Secret Santa game. It sounded fun. Now all I had to do was decide what to bring.
But believe me, it wasn’t that.
We were only together for a few months, but what we had was true love.
I’d met him his third day in town. Though, technically, I saw him on the street the day before. Walking down Galena, him on one side, me on the other. The sun was out and he was squinting, brushing his thick black hair from his face. He looked lost. And beautiful. I figured he was a young actor bound for movie stardom, in town to pay his respects to the older celebrities who’d moved here. He turned and ducked into a hardware store, and I thought maybe I wouldn’t see him again.
Then the next day, during one of spring’s famous flash downpours, he came into the diner for cover and coffee. That was all it took. Conversation came easy. He was on a sort of seasonal circuit, moving from state to state, mostly harvests, but was lucky to be brought on as an all-purpose hired hand sort of role. Maintaining the property. He was bunking up at Mr. Miller’s place on high flats. I only met Mr. Miller a few times. He was quiet, old. Seemed grateful to have Tommy.
This was when, foolishly, I still believed in good luck.
Zara
The idea had been to go alone, but my manager insisted I needed at least one of my bodyguards. Dave volunteered, since it was around the holidays and the other guys have families. He’s good at his job, definitely looks the part. He’s almost seven feet tall, always wears a custom-made dark suit from some big-and-tall shop. I watched him scoop up two people in each arm when the barrier broke last year when I was main stage at Coachella. Please understand that even though he came with me, I viewed this as a solo expedition of recovery and discovery. Of course the one thing Dave couldn’t save me from is if our little plane smashed into a mountain. Which seemed like a real possibility. The turbulence started the minute we left L.A. and never once, not even for a minute, let up. Halfway through I could hear Dave mumbling something like a prayer.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
“I’m usually the bus guy,” he said. “Not the plane guy.”
Luckily, Pip was there for emotional support, proving once again that dogs are the only option for a true relationship. The turbulence didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She just curled up against my chest in her little sling sack all cuddly and kissing my face. I popped an extra Xanax but didn’t manage to sleep. Too much thrashing.
No one warned me that the Aspen/Pitkin County Airport was a teeny-tiny shit landing strip wedged between the Rocky Mountains. It dared planes to land, like preteens dared each other to make out in a closet, all angst ridden and secretly hoping it will all be over fast. When we finally landed, everyone clapped louder than opening night at Hamilton. (Which reminded me, I owed Lin a text. He’d been so sweet to reach out after the breakup, but I hadn’t wanted to talk to anybody.) Later at the party, the Tigglemans told me the airport cancels a third of all flights because of safety and that they were surprised I got in given the conditions. WTF.
My schedule keeps me chasing the sun. Usually I’m just popping from summer festival to summer festival around the globe, so snow and I don’t have a ton of history. That’s why I wasn’t sure if it was normal that these Aspen flakes were the size of my hand. By the look of everyone rushing around so much, I was guessing not. I was guessing this snow was pretty intense. Pip was loving it. She thought the flakes were chew toys. She kept trying to bite them as they were falling.
I was totally underdressed. Even in the airport, the Aspen women were really bringing it. In the short walk through the terminal I counted three pairs of Jimmy Choo shearling boots, two Pucci down coats, and a dozen skintight bodysuits. I had showered for a change and was actually wearing jeans rather than the post-breakup sweats, but my Air Force 1s were the closest thing I had to boots, and as soon as I stepped outside, my feet got soaked. Luckily, Dave and I didn’t have to walk too far. The Escalade he hired was waiting out front.
I texted Claudine.
Wheels down! Pip and I heading straight to the Hotel Jerome. Desperate for a gimlet. See you at six. oxxo
Claudine
Claudine swirled in her chair as her phone buzzed. Good, Zara had landed.
On Claudine’s strict order, the offices of Calhoun + Calhoun were stark white: the exposed-brick walls painted white, white bistro lights, long white tables with white bowls of white chocolate individually wrapped in white. After a bit of negotiating with the building’s owner—although it was hardly ever a negotiation with her; more like a swindling, because few stood a chance—Claudine even had the gorgeous wide-paneled oak floors also painted white. Employees were told to keep their desks sparse and hang their coats in the closets, and if they had to eat at all, do so only in the kitchen. Keep it clean.
Her staff understood that Claudine wanted clients walking through the door and seeing their own vision projected on the crisp surfaces. Their personal canvas. To be inspired. Clients respond to the minimalist nature of the office. The employees who knew Claudine best understood another reason for the crisp white offices was that this choice, minimalism, was easiest to defend. Abstract enough to talk about and appealing to both the avant-garde and the traditional. She applied the same philosophy to showing houses. Most agents believed in staging, creating a sense of home, hoping that would tap into a client’s sense of comfort, of belonging. Not Claudine. She preferred to keep a house empty, to encourage a prospective buyer to use their imagination—or, rather, for her to impose her imagination on them. Lately this appr
oach had also been a matter of necessity. Staging a home was another expense Calhoun + Calhoun couldn’t afford.
Claudine stepped out of her office and summoned her staff.
“All right, everyone.”
They surrounded her in seconds. Looking around the half circle of attentive faces, Claudine was proud of them. Proud of them because she had picked them. She had curated the team carefully. Purposefully. There was very little she did without purpose. She knew the importance of a balancing act. That creating the right army could be the difference between being basic successful and stinking-rich successful. Every one of their employees had a unique talent that made a noticeable contribution to the business.
Rashida was the listener of the group. The agent for those clients who needed a therapist as much as a new home.
Louisa was the data nerd. She had come from a career in analytics and was brilliant at tracking the latest trends. Most recently, she’d worked on Bernie Sanders’s presidential campaign. But after reading a Harvard study that concluded the human life span was longer in Colorado than D.C., she packed her bags and headed west.
Natalie had spent time in the Army Reserve and her fastidiousness made her the agent best suited for the more high-maintenance customers, those who found flaws in every little thing. She could anticipate their issues before even they could and steer them out of sight.
Alice was the landscape expert—the agent for those who cared more about what surrounded a house than the house itself.
John was the agent for the old divorcées, the ones whose husbands had abandoned them for a newer model and who were eager to drop their hefty settlement on a place unsoiled by infidelity. Maybe John would like to move in with them, they’d joke. He’d laugh and flirt—and more, Claudine guessed, given the constant rotation of Rolexes and Omegas and TAGs on his wrist. He wasn’t doing that well in sales. None of her agents were. Not lately.
Given the firm’s struggles, she knew they must have thought it odd when a few months earlier she had hired Jules. Her yoga instructor. Jules wasn’t tasked with any significant responsibilities. Managing the office, ordering pens and Post-its and other supplies, doing errands. She was good at her job, and things did seem to work more smoothly with her around. The agents were happy they no longer had to run out for their own coffee. They weren’t complaining. Certainly not to Claudine directly. Never. In private, though, they probably assumed that Jules’s hiring had more to do with the one-on-one midday yoga sessions she gave to Claudine in the smaller conference room that was never used. The staff knew their boss well, taking Jules off the market assured her the best personal trainer in town. She didn’t like to share.
At least they knew one of their bosses. Henry, on the other hand, not so much. Claudine knew they saw him as an enigmatic artist—nice enough but shy, introverted, a bit socially awkward. Their jobs called for little interaction with him. Recently he remodeled the office, putting his office on the other side of the space from Claudine’s. Sometimes the agents could go an entire day without seeing him. Since he’d come back from his health scare and grown even more withdrawn, they were giving him a wider berth than usual.
Except for Jules. She and Henry had a connection. In the weeks prior to the hospital and the Flynn deal imploding, she had been staying at the office late, helping him with paperwork for the project. Claudine was surprised. Jules didn’t seem like Henry’s type—the antithesis of herself. Sweet, smiley, and zero style. She wouldn’t deny she had a slight twinge of jealousy, even though Henry was certainly within his right to stray, what with her and Steve. She knew he wouldn’t. He preferred his self-pity and self-righteousness to a fleeting office tryst. And Claudine was glad for that, because that self-loathing was what made his work so damn good. His designs were fueled by those feelings. The worse he felt, the more attention to detail there was. It was the only thing that offered him an outlet. An escape. Especially after he gave up drinking. Now, since the hospital, it didn’t. He wasn’t able to work at all. And so, more than feeling jealousy toward his connection to Jules, Claudine felt relief that Henry had a new distraction. A harmless flirtation to keep him from spiraling too deeply into whatever was going on in that brilliant head of his. But he was off. What was he thinking, just that morning talking about leaving Aspen for good? It was foolish. And on this day of all days, with Zara in town and the fate of the company at stake.
“I’m heading to Montague House a touch early,” Claudine told the semicircle of agents. “I need all of you to be there at the very least thirty minutes before. This is the biggest night of your life. Everything—every mini–crab cake, each piece of imported chocolate—is about closing the deal. Never, not even for a moment, forget that tonight is about that one thing. It’s not over until Zara Aspen’s newest resident. Whatever it takes.”
Do what it takes, or you’ll be left behind. One of the many tips she had taken from Steve. It was good advice. He had plenty of that. How to run a flawless open house, the best way to flatter a potential client without sounding like a kiss-ass, how to identify a serious buyer from a time-wasting lookie-loo. In the early days, she was like one of those remora fish that attach themselves to the back of a shark, eating the bloody scraps falling out of its mouth. But, unlike those fish, hers hadn’t been a free ride. A quick ride, sure. Mercifully, Steve was always quick. And always apologetic about it. Blaming her for being so hot, too much of a turn-on. She’d be lying to say that didn’t boost her ego. But that wasn’t what she was in it for. It was strictly transactional. Steve got to fuck her, and Claudine got to learn the business quicker than if she’d just bided her time as an agent.
Apparently going back to Montague House wasn’t just bringing back memories for Henry. But there was no time for reminiscing.
“If you need motivation,” she continued, “just think about how later, when Zara tells the entire world the story of how she fell in love with Aspen, you’ll take pride in knowing you played a role. Right, Louisa?”
Louisa jumped to attention from her wall slouch, coffee almost sloshing out of her mug. At least it wasn’t the old Bernie one that Claudine had thrown out. It was so tiring, wrangling the progressives.
“Yes. According to a Kelton study, two-thirds of people are influenced by their first impressions,” said Louisa. “We need to get it right the first time.”
“Louisa,” Claudine said, “your job tonight is to collect the coats and purses. I don’t want any of the catering staff to do it. I don’t trust their sticky fingers.”
“I’ll stop and buy some extra hangers just to make sure we have enough,” Louisa said.
“Obviously, get the sturdy wood kind. Not cheap plastic ones,” Claudine said. “Rashida, I want you to keep an eye on the Alpine brothers. They are strictly décor. Their attendance is merely to add local flavor. The only time they should open their mouths is when they are eating. So keep them over by the beef carving station and out of Zara’s way.”
“Sure thing,” said Rashida.
“Alice, have you confirmed the plant delivery?”
“Yes,” said Alice. “Everything has arrived. Weeping figs in the entryway, succulents on the coffee tables, butterfly orchid on the mantel.”
“John,” Claudine said, “two things. One, not too much flirting with Mrs. Tiggleman. A little is okay. We want her to be happy. But too much could upset the captain. We want him happy too. I don’t need to tell you, they are both very important clients. And two, I need you to bring party favors. In case Zara’s expecting something a bit more … exciting.”
“Any idea what she’s into?”
“Bring an assortment.”
“Looks like more snow is in the forecast.”
“Are we worried about the actual snow?” asked Rashida. “It’s pretty nasty out there. What if the roads start to get too bad. Should we be worried about how Zara will get home?”
“Are you sure you’re concerned about Zara and not yourself?” Claudine said.
Rashida lo
oked down in embarrassment.
“Want me to calculate the frequency of snowplows and salt dispersal in this area just to be safe?” Louisa asked.
“No,” Claudine snapped. “The weather will not ruin this night.”
The way she said it was both a guarantee and a threat to the earth’s atmosphere.
“Natalie.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A military habit she couldn’t break, no matter how many times Claudine chided her. She despised the formality. It made her feel ancient.
“Natalie, if you call me ‘ma’am’ tonight in front of Zara, I’ll fire you.”
“Of course, ma—Claudine.”
“You’re in charge of quality control. Walk through the house and make sure nothing is out of place. The throw pillows plumped. The central fireplace stoked. All table runners removed.”
“We hate table runners,” Natalie said.
“The house must look like Aspen’s own Windsor Castle.”
“You mean Buckingham Palace?” asked Jules.
“No,” Claudine said. “The queen weekends at Windsor. Someone like Zara needs many houses. Montague House is the one where, in the middle of her chaotic life—whether she’s taking a bow from a stage in Tokyo or fleeing from paparazzi through the streets of Zurich—she’ll long to return to, to escape it all.”
It was then that Claudine noticed Jules’s outfit. A long-sleeved evergreen knit dress splashed with tiny snowflakes.
“You’re wearing that?”
“It’s festive!” Jules said. Unlike the other agents, she didn’t act intimidated by Claudine. She had a youthful composure, but also an air of discipline. It was even evident in her handwriting. The little notes she left for the agents letting them know of a missed call were so fluid and graceful. It looked almost like calligraphy. And so Claudine had a special task for Jules.
The Secret Santa Page 3