Hot Property

by Michele Kleier

  “Wait, you lied to them?” Alexa says.

  “Well, I prefer to say I rearranged the facts, darlin’. But only because I knew, the moment we set foot in here, that this was meant to be your apartment, a home where you and Bobby and your sweet little angel Chloe would be truly happy.”

  “Ha,” Kate says, her smile matching Alexa’s, “but I had that very same feeling. Now let’s go fall in love with the three enormous bedrooms—Alexa, the master suite has its own dressing room! And I hope you have noticed the eleven-foot ceilings. . . .” Alexa squeals and claps her hands. Kate wants to kiss Mr. Butterworth on his chubby little cheeks.

  When they’re done looking, Kate isn’t at all surprised to hear Mr. Butterworth’s prediction: this time, the interview with the co-op board will be a piece of pecan pie for Alexa and her husband.

  And they’ll just have to take Butterworth’s word for it—after all, who knows better than a psychic when it comes to the vagaries of co-op boards?

  On her way to her parents’ apartment for dinner that night, Kate runs into the family dermatologist, a striking thirty-five-year-old in a Prada suit whose younger sister, Annie, was a high school classmate of hers. Dr. Paul Frank stops her on the street with a big kiss hello and asks, laughingly, “How is that lollipop treating you?” Kate takes the lollipop out of her mouth—wishing she wasn’t sucking on it right now—and smiles. “Mom and the family all good?” he continues.

  “They’re great,” she says. “Actually, Mom may need to come see you soon for a little Botox.” She smiles, remembering the last time she and her mother went to Dr. Frank’s office, a few months ago; even while getting her injection, her insanely busy mother continued to take calls on her cell phone. Paul Frank had to virtually chase her around his office as she paced on the phone, thumbing through the pages of her Day-at-a-Glance, begging her to sit in his chair and stop talking or he’d stick the needle in her lip by accident.

  Paul is staring at her intently now, and Kate’s starting to feel self-conscious; does she have crow’s-feet? Or under-eye circles that need fillers, like all her friends get? He’s so good-looking she feels her cheeks start to turn red. Why does this always happen to her? she thinks. She can’t control the flush of her cheeks.

  Offering his diagnosis after a moment, Paul tells her, “You’re way too pretty to not be married, Kate.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she says, blushing even more, not knowing what else to say. She was excited to see him on TV not long ago, talking on Good Morning America about Botox helping to ease his patients’ migraines, and she remembers his funny response when Barbara Walters asked if he used the stuff himself: “Well, I look pretty good for sixty, don’t I?” She looks out toward the median that divides Park Avenue and at the beautiful purple tulips and hydrangeas that bloom there.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” Paul is saying. “Because if you’re not, I’m wondering whether you’d be interested in going out with my cousin Jeff. He’s an architect, a Yale grad, a really great guy, everyone says he looks like Robert Pattinson. What do you think?”

  As gorgeous as you? she’d like to ask. But instead she smiles and says, “Oh, I don’t really like blind dates, but how could I say no to a cousin of yours?”

  “I think he’s on Facebook. Jeff Matthau. Check him out for yourself and then give my office a call, okay?” Paul says kindly.

  Paul Frank is gorgeous and sweet. And so cute—darkly handsome like Dermot Mulroney in My Best Friend’s Wedding. “Thanks so much,” she tells him. And then, even though she’s going to be seeing Isabel in less than five minutes, Kate calls to tell her about Paul Frank and his cousin.

  “Too bad we’re not on Facebook,” Isabel says. “If we were, I could look at him right now. Although the thought of you with someone else is so weird—I just keep picturing you with Scott.”

  And at that moment, as happy as Kate is for her engaged sister, she wonders how it came about that Isabel became engaged first. As the big sister, Kate had done everything first. Every major event in their life—whether walking and talking, attending Horace Mann nursery school, getting their first bras or manicures, having their first kisses—Kate had gone first. So Isabel’s getting engaged first completely goes against the natural order of things. It isn’t that Kate is jealous; it was just so unexpected that Isabel would do anything before her, let alone get married. Kate, the English major, received her first A+ for a paper she wrote in the seventh grade titled “The Unwelcome Gift.” It was about the birth of her sister, and the story began with the moment her mother’s water broke all over the green shag carpet during their Sunday night Chinese dinner. Isabel, with her roly-poly legs and cheeks (infancy seeming to be the only time in a girl’s life where chubby is more coveted than skinny) was a sheer delight to everyone who saw her, including Kate. Kate was in love with her, helping her mother change diapers and shaking a rattle when Isabel was in the cradle, her “little babysitter,” Elizabeth called her.

  But there was another side. Kate also loved to pinch the baby. The more Kate pinched, the more Isabel wanted to be held by her. The more Kate dressed her in her doll’s outfits—crinkly, ruffly, totally uncomfortable crinolines and ruffles and petticoats, propping her up in their parents’ green-and-white-flowered bed, Isabel’s head lolling forward—the more Isabel squealed and gurgled with glee. So Elizabeth, sensing an undercurrent of something other than pure glee in Kate, created the “Yaya and Tralala” stories that she would tell Kate at bedtime in her lavender bed with the big white eyelet canopy, in her bedroom with the Wizard of Oz yellow-brick-road wallpaper. These were stories where the older sister—a dark-haired, brown-eyed, scrawny little girl (Elizabeth always attributed Kate’s smallness to a terrible cold she developed at two months old)—was named Yaya (a whine), and the angelic younger sister, a blond, blue-eyed, and perfectly rosy-cheeked baby, was called Tralala (a singsong). Elizabeth figured these sort of make-believe stories would help Kate adjust to no longer being an only child.

  “I know,” Kate says to Isabel now, with a teeny-tiny lump in her throat at the thought that she could be anything other than purely joyful at her sister’s good fortune.

  There’s a vase of lovely pink peonies and periwinkle hydrangeas in the entrance gallery of her parents’ apartment, Kate sees when she arrives. And then she sees that Isabel is sitting there in the library, Dolly in her lap, Roxy and Lola on the floor at her feet. All three pure white dogs are in a state of total glee at the sight of Kate, scratching at her bare legs; it’s almost as if there’s something important they’d like to tell her, if only they could speak.

  “Come and sit with me, girls,” she says, and lifts one and then the other onto the sofa.

  “So how’d everything go with Alexa and the three-bedroom on Fifth?” Isabel says.

  “Oh, what a story!” Kate says, then tells her all about Mr. Butterworth. On the coffee table in front of them is a tray of crackers, an aged Gouda, Gruyère, and a sinfully delicious triple-crème St. André, and her sister’s half-filled glass of virgin Bloody Mary. Kate takes a big sip, and remembers all those after-school snacks exactly like this one, from the time she was in second grade. Oh, how the Chase children loved their childhood, how excited the girls were when it was announced over the loudspeaker at Horace Mann, Kate in the middle of reading Ramona the Pest with Mrs. Wendy Steinthal, “Will Kate and Isabel Chase please come to the principal’s office” to get the news that their baby brother had been born! Every Friday she and her sister went to Helen Butleroff’s School of Dance close to home on 84th Street, where Helen, a former Rockette, taught them tap, jazz, and ballet. And after dance class, their parents would pick them up and drive them to midtown in one Mercedes and then another, as years passed (for Tom was always replacing his cars with the latest models), to the Palm on Second and 45th, where she and Isabel stubbornly and routinely refused to eat steak and, instead, would order the same spaghetti marinara week after wee
k, the four of them sitting in “their” booth by the bar, where their parents drank Bloody Bull shots and dined on roast beef and lobster, creamed spinach and hash browns, the floor under their feet sprinkled with sawdust, all of it presided over by the lovable manager, Al, who is still there today. (These days the Chases sit at a table in the front, next to the caricature of Tom and the family that has been painted on the wall.) She remembers, too, the Chinese food she and Isabel loved at those restaurants, now long shuttered, with names like King Dragon and City Luck, Jonathan a baby who, after every dinner, came home with a diaper full of white rice, no matter what he was wearing.

  They decide to order pizza now—as always, with extra cheese—from Mimi’s on Lex, where they’ve been ordering from before Jonathan was even born. And when it arrives, their mother has a salad ready for them with Good Seasons dressing and a pitcher of fresh-brewed iced tea. Over dinner in the kitchen, they discuss work until, very casually, Isabel says, “I’ve been thinking of black for the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

  There are, Kate notices, a couple of dark green specks of oregano at the corner of Isabel’s mouth, and Kate leans over and brushes them away with her napkin. She remembers how, as the older sister, she would always look out for Isabel, and later Jonathan, trying never to sound too bossy but probably failing at that, she thinks now. It was her job to protect them, she thought; even though when their parents went out in the evening and left them with a sitter (which was very infrequently), it was Kate who asked Isabel to wait up for their parents with her in their parents’ bed (whenever they did go out, Kate always slept in her parents’ bed) because she was scared and missed them. She would hold her little sister’s and brother’s hands as they crossed the streets of the city, their mother beside them as they walked home from playdates after school. A lifetime ago, it seems.

  “Black is always a sexy color,” Kate says. “And it looks good on everyone.”

  “You know, Meme used to say black was only for old people. She never wanted your mom or Aunt Bobby to wear it,” their father says.

  “We love it when you talk about fashion,” Isabel teases him.

  “I just don’t see black for a summer wedding, sorry, girls,” Elizabeth says, and that ends the conversation. “Are we going to watch Gone with the Wind tonight or no?” she says plaintively a moment later. She seems distracted, so unlike the way she usually is when Kate and Isabel are over for dinner—usually she’s bustling about, slipping in and out of her seat to get the phone, or more lemon for their iced tea.

  This is all about Teddy; Kate is sure of it. Her mother has always been on top of everything, but the possibility of Teddy trying to sabotage the family business is extremely disturbing. She’s managing, though, working even harder than usual, and that’s always been her mother’s way, a sort of purposeful state of denial.

  In a few minutes they move to the library, the three women on the sofa, Tom in his club chair with his feet up. Gone with the Wind is in the Blu-ray player; Kate and Isabel have probably seen the four-hour film a dozen times since childhood, once even at the Sony theater on Broadway and 68th—it ended at 1:00 a.m. and even had an intermission, “like the good old days,” their father said. “This is the way movies should be shown.” The Chases love the film more every time they see it.

  “You should be kissed, and often, by someone who knows how,” Kate hears Clark Gable advise Vivien Leigh, and she savors, if only for a moment, the thrill of longing for Scott that goes right through her.

  Chapter Eight

  Isabel

  High Drama over Park

  CPW/70s. 10-room penthouse duplex in the fabled San Remo. 4 bedrooms, 4 baths, sunroom, and wood-paneled library. Central Park views throughout. $10.5 million.

  The bridal salon on the seventh floor of Bergdorf’s is an enchanted little paradise. Isabel delights in the dove-gray carpeting, the armchairs upholstered in cream silk, the three-tiered tray offering petit fours and chocolates, the rods of sumptuous bridal gowns in every subtle shade of white, ivory, cream, and champagne. As she moves around the small space, she flicks the hangers—first an exquisite, simple silk slip, then an elaborately beaded and lace-trimmed gown, a full, bell-like tulle skirt that is straight out of Cinderella. This extravagant dress would have danced its way through the lavish court of Versailles a few centuries back, she thinks.

  Isabel didn’t plan on coming here; she never goes shopping—especially for a wedding dress!—on her own. The Chase girls barely commit to buying an umbrella without their mother’s opinion. But the client Kate’s taking to a luxury high-rise on Third Avenue is running late, and the potential seller whose 72nd Street apartment she’s scheduled to see needs a bit longer to get the apartment in shape, so Isabel finds herself with a little time to play. Since she needs a new lipstick, she pops into Bergdorf’s, and once she’s bought the lipstick and a box of Santa Maria Novella bath salts, on impulse, she gets on the escalator up to the bridal salon.

  “May I help you?”

  Isabel turns to see a pretty woman with shoulder-length dark hair advancing toward her. She’s wearing a flame-colored sheath dress and four-inch black patent leather pumps. Isabel recognizes Christian Louboutin’s trademark poppy red on the soles when the woman takes another step.

  “I’m just looking,” Isabel says. She doesn’t want to do this without her mother and Kate, but she can’t resist a little peek.

  “Okay, I’m here,” the woman says. Her voice is low and melodic; Isabel is instantly drawn to it. “Just let me know if I can help in any way.”

  Isabel nods politely and continues her study of the room. She glances up at the Venetian glass chandelier and looks longingly at the chocolates on the stand.

  The lovely saleswoman reappears, and hands her a card. “When you’re ready, you can schedule an appointment,” she says.

  Isabel looks down at what is printed on the card. “Beth,” she reads. “Thank you.” She permits herself a last look around the bridal salon.

  “You’re welcome,” Beth says.

  “Isabel!” She hears a familiar, European-accented voice. It’s the countess, who, when she says her name, places the emphasis on the last syllable, so it sounds like “IsaBELLE.”

  “Delphine, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been shopping!” Delphine says with sweet delight, and holds aloft the orchid-colored Bergdorf’s bag, “and I was just going to stop for a cappuccino.” The countess waves her arm, indicating the restaurant that is also on Bergdorf’s seventh floor. “Why don’t you join me?”

  Isabel hesitates for only a second and then thinks, Why not? Since her appointments have been pushed back until three, she has some time.

  Being in the bridal salon made her feel so giddy, so hopeful, even though she didn’t actually try on a dress, that she decides she’s entitled to a little self-indulgence, and besides, the countess is a client. And so she says, “I’d love to join you.”

  The countess doesn’t actually clap out loud, but she presses her hands together before linking arms with Isabel. They enter the restaurant, and before they can say anything, the maître d’ approaches them and announces that there is a half-hour wait. “We’re just here for a cappuccino. We’ll take that small table by the window, va bene?” Delphine says, and the man gives a little bow and enthusiastically answers her in a flood of Italian. Within moments, Isabel and the countess find themselves at a table overlooking the magnificent Plaza Hotel and condominiums, and beyond that, the gorgeous green of Central Park.

  “How did you know that he was Italian?” Isabel asks, amazed at how skillfully this transition was made.

  “His accent in English is unmistakable,” the countess says. “I come across so many like him here in the city.” She smiles that girlish smile of hers, the one that Isabel finds hard to resist.

  A waiter appears and Delphine says to Isabel, “Latté, cappuccino?”

/>   Delphine’s long, straight blond hair falls in her face as she dips into her handbag, seeming to look for something momentarily. There is nothing girlish about the massive gold and aquamarine ring—the stone nearly as large and rectangular as a domino—that rests on her slim finger, or the heavy pearl drops that dangle from her ears. Over her shoulders, Delphine has artfully tossed a snowy white silk shawl; her skirt is a rich silk paisley in delicate shades of yellow, turquoise, ivory, and black. Isabel knows that if she looks down, she’ll see the countess’s shiny black cowboy boots on her feet.

  The countess seems to find what she’s been looking for, and with what Isabel could swear is a twinkle in her eye says, “So what brings you to the seventh floor of Bergdorf’s? Everything really good is down below!”

  At that moment, the man who seated them appears holding Isabel’s cell phone. Why does he have it? She must have dropped it somewhere; she hadn’t even realized it was gone.

  “I believe this is yours,” he says. “Beth in the bridal salon just brought it by. I recognized her description.”

  “Oh, thank you so much,” says Isabel, gratefully accepting the phone. Oh, she can imagine if she had lost it—a disaster! “Please thank Beth, too.”

  The man nods and walks away. Isabel glances over at the countess, who has said nothing. But her eyes, Isabel sees, are bright with curiosity.

  “The bridal salon!” Delphine coos. “Are you engaged?”

  Isabel puts her hand on the table to show her client the beautiful diamond.

  “Well, I must be very unobservant because I didn’t even notice the ring. What wonderful news! When did this happen?”

  Isabel tells Delphine about the proposal.

  “This Michael, he sounds so romantic. And an actor! On television as well as on the stage! How glamorous! You must let me know when he is appearing in something. Fritzie and I adore the theater. So . . . why don’t you look as happy as I think you should?”