Hot Property

by Michele Kleier

  Isabel hesitates. And then the cappuccinos arrive; as she takes a sip, she says, “It’s just that my older sister’s boyfriend broke up with her right before my boyfriend proposed to me, and I guess I just wish the timing had all been different.”

  The countess shakes her head. “With love there always seems to come a payment of one sort or another. Your sister will find someone else, I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, she’s been totally in love with him for years, despite the fact that he keeps breaking up with her. He always comes back, though.”

  “I admire her for this,” Delphine says. “I was, you might say, addicted to Fritzie, who had to disentangle himself from his former wife to marry me. How long have your parents been married?” she asks.

  “Forever,” Isabel says with pride.

  “My goodness, really?” the countess says, but her tone, Isabel can’t help noticing, is slightly skeptical. “It’s so hard these days to find marriages that last a lifetime. You don’t know how lucky you are that your parents have remained together.” She smiles. “It gives your own marriage a much greater chance.”

  “I think so. I hope so,” Isabel says, just for a moment imagining herself growing old (gracefully, of course!) with Michael and having a marriage just like her parents’. She can see them living in the same apartment building on Park Avenue, in a lovely classic nine with a private elevator landing, raising her children with all that she and Kate and Jonathan had growing up.

  “I know only a few couples who have stayed together for a lifetime, but all of them have had affairs,” Delphine remarks, looking down at her bejeweled hands. “However, they are Europeans. Whereas your parents are Americans. Do you think they have been faithful to each other all these years?” she says, gazing up at Isabel now.

  Isabel can’t quite believe that Delphine has the nerve to ask such a thing. Before she has a chance to respond in any sort of measured way, Delphine says, “Forgive me, don’t even tell me. How impertinent I’ve been! I don’t know what has gotten into me. Tell me instead, did you find your wedding dress yet?” she asks as she daintily sips the last drops of her cappuccino. “No, of course you didn’t!” she says, answering her own question. “Finding the right dress takes time. It’s a whole process. But a lovely one, I should think. I never had the pleasure.” The countess looks down and sighs. She sets her cappuccino cup down with a tiny clatter.

  Still irritated by Delphine’s inappropriate question, Isabel says, “You mean you didn’t pick out a dress for yourself when you married the count?” How can this be?

  “No,” the countess says. She leans back in her chair and carefully rearranges herself. “We eloped.”

  “Well, that must have been romantic,” Isabel says.

  “Not entirely,” says the countess. “Fritzie has a grown daughter from a previous marriage. She doesn’t like me, and that’s an understatement. Believe me when I tell you that she was not at all happy—and this, too, is an understatement—that her beloved father was taking me as his wife.” The expression on her face darkens; it’s as though a momentary shadow has fallen across her sunny disposition.

  “Oh, sorry,” says Isabel. “That’s . . . sad.”

  “Most unfortunate,” Delphine says before signaling to the waiter and taking the check. “Another cappuccino, please,” she says to him before turning back to Isabel. She’s smiling at her now; she’s once again become the charming, girlish client Isabel has enjoyed working with these past weeks.

  Poised in front of the doors to Bergdorf’s, they spend a few minutes discussing the next apartment that the countess wants to see. Because she’s now expressed an interest in the west side as well, Isabel is considering two possibilities—a penthouse in the storied San Remo on Central Park West and a Riverside Drive gem with unobstructed views of the Hudson River from six of its ten vast rooms.

  “Next week, then?” Isabel says as she sees the white limo pulling up.

  “Any day but Thursday,” Delphine says. “Let’s say Friday. Friday would be perfect. I’ll call to set the time.” And with a quick double peck on each side of Isabel’s face, she slips into the waiting limo and drives away.

  Isabel’s eager to get back to the office to tell her sister and mother all about her conversation with the countess.

  As if Elizabeth knew Isabel was thinking of her, her phone rings. “Oh, hi, Mom,” she says, and then listens as Elizabeth explains a complicated situation with a seller who has now decided to pull his apartment from the market. “Uh-huh,” Isabel repeats a couple of times, nodding vigorously even though of course her mother can’t see her. But Elizabeth’s phone calls, like Elizabeth herself, are always so filled with energy, it’s impossible not to be infected with her larger-than-life spirit.

  After she says good-bye to her mother, her phone rings again. Kate? No, it’s her friend Nancy Scarlata. “Isaboo, you ready for this?” Nancy says, her voice percolating with excitement. Nancy is the only person Elizabeth allows to shorten her daughter’s name; Elizabeth is not one for nicknames.

  “What?” Isabel says, stepping aside on Fifth Avenue to avoid a crowd of French-speaking tourists walking three abreast.

  “You made Page Six—again!” says Nancy, clearly delighted. “Let me read it to you!” she says, and Isabel hears her flipping the pages of her New York Post like a detective hot to trot on a murder mystery.

  “OMG! Now, please!” Isabel says.

  We hear that dashing young actor Michael Prescott has proposed to the blond and beautiful Isabel Chase, of the high-end real estate firm Chase Residential. Isabel and her brunette look-alike sister, Kate, are the celeb real estate experts for NBC’s “Access Hollywood.”

  “OMG, I love it!” Isabel squeals.

  “Hold on one sec,” says Nancy. She says something in her rapid-fire style to someone else; Nancy is a high-powered book editor responsible for several notable best sellers, and she’s as busy as Isabel. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” she says, returning to Isabel. “Want to meet for drinks one night next week? At the Carlyle? Although I’m too fat to go out, really.” Nancy is all of a size four or six, on a bad day. Tall, nearly 5’7”, with long, thick black hair, long gorgeous legs, beautiful tanned skin, and big brown eyes, Nancy is extremely pretty, but doesn’t realize it. Her only flaw is that she is sometimes so insecure in her looks that she moves around like a pony, one who grew too big too fast and isn’t quite sure how to walk yet.

  “Next week is perfect,” Isabel says. “Love you, and you are never fat!” And then she phones her parents and e-mails her brother and sister to let them know the exciting news about Page Six!

  Back at the office, Isabel waves to Kate, who is on her cell and office phone at the same time. Isabel slips into her chair, turns to her laptop, and pulls up the listing for the San Remo penthouse. Ten rooms, ten-foot ceilings, all original details—a dream! The penthouse looks out over Central Park. This could be the one for the countess, she decides!

  Just then she hears laughter booming from Teddy’s office, and she can make out bits of his manic conversation—about a certain boutique hotel in the French Riviera whose owner is a prep school friend of his. “Trust me on this one, Diane,” he’s saying. “This is the place to stay. It’s so . . . well, discreet, and they have a great staff just waiting for you to ask them for something.”

  Isabel wonders vaguely which Diane this could be. A girl he is dating? Or perhaps, by the way Teddy is going on, one of his celebrity clients? Diane Sawyer? Diane Lane? Just at that moment, he breezes by Isabel’s office on the way to confer with Elizabeth in hers, impeccably dressed in a slim-fit charcoal gray Ralph Lauren suit and cotton candy pink Hermès tie with baby blue dolphins. Isabel can see her mother’s stiff, slightly bristling response to Teddy’s sudden appearance in her office. They exchange a few words, then he walks out the door, presumably going to an appointment. The truth is, Isabel hates the fact
that they just can’t get rid of Teddy. She allows herself to fantasize that, maybe a year or so from now, they’ll be done with him. Of course, without Teddy in the office, it will be a lot quieter and, arguably, a bit duller. She knows her sister would agree with her, though, that on a day-to-day basis sometimes that charm of his is just too much.

  A couple of hours later, after she’s returned dozens of calls and e-mails, and just as she’s attaching the listing in an e-mail to Delphine, Violeta approaches, carrying a silver box tied with a silver ribbon.

  “This just came for you,” she says, handing the box to Isabel.

  “Really? From who?” Isabel gazes at the expertly tied bow.

  “It was brought by messenger,” Violeta explains. “There’s a card.”

  Isabel opens the envelope, and there, in lavish script, is a short message that reads:

  I asked you far too many personal questions. And I talked too much about myself today. I didn’t mean to cloud your happiness, even for an instant. Please accept this little antique tea schedule. This is what ladies used to write their tea engagements on with a certain kind of pencil that can easily be erased. I think it should be yours.

  As ever, D.

  Isabel sets aside the note and opens the box. Nestled beneath the tissue paper is a small, delicate ivory fan with seven wide blades. It is simple and beautiful, and she imagines herself as a nineteenth-century woman of stature, writing her weekly engagements on each blade and then erasing them at the end of each meeting. Oh, to have lived back then, she thinks.

  Kate, curious, walks over to her now. “What’s that?” she asks, looking at the delicate ivory object in Isabel’s hands.

  “It was apparently used to keep track of ladies coming to tea.” They hear the sound of jingling bracelets and know their mother is steps away. Elizabeth’s jewelry, at least the sound of it, always precedes her.

  “Where did you get that?” Elizabeth says, putting her red Birkin on Isabel’s desk.

  “Delphine, of course.”

  “What a client to have!” Elizabeth says.

  “Have you shown her the duplex in the San Remo yet?” Kate says, smiling. “I feel like that is so her kind of apartment, just from the gifts she gives you!”

  “Next week! We’re going!” Isabel says, glad that Kate’s sadness seems to be passing. Both girls turn to see where their mother has gone, and then realize that she is back in her office. They watch her behind the large glass window through which Elizabeth likes to observe the comings and goings of her daughters and all the other brokers. Looking more than a little displeased, she has her reading glasses on and is studying something intently; though Isabel can only guess at what her mother may be thinking, she imagines it to be some document that casts doubt on Teddy’s loyalty to Chase Residential. Ever since Monique passed along information that Teddy might not have Chase Residential’s best interests at heart—and who knows, he could even be selling private details about the firm’s new exclusive clients and listings to other companies (in particular LEX)—Isabel has watched her mother struggle with denial and disbelief that somebody so close to her might actually betray her.

  She pulls open her desk drawer now and begins going through it—so that’s where her Chanel sunglasses went! After a moment, she locates the small unopened box of engraved note cards her mother ordered for each of them from Mrs. John L. Strong. Elizabeth’s has a big E on the front, Kate’s a K, and Isabel’s an I. Each is engraved on heavy, cream-colored vellum paper, and each envelope is lined in a rich shade of amethyst. Now all she has to do is compose a note equal to both the stationery and the gift, and send it to Delphine at the Dartley.

  Chapter Nine

  Elizabeth

  Luxe Lucida Condo

  80s east. 3000 sf interior, 1000 sf of terraces in this high-floor 4 bedroom with south and west open city views. 40 foot living/dining. Full service Extell condo offers lap pool, spa, fitness center and more. $8.9 million.

  Elizabeth has an extremely busy day ahead of her. First, a closing for a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment at 130 East 75th Street, a prewar building a few steps from Park Avenue whose co-op board was perfectly fine about her South American clients buying a seven-figure apartment for their granddaughter straight out of NYU law school. Then she has back-to-back showings for a classic-six buyer at 125 East 84th, 1111 Park, and 975 Park, all in the $2.5 to $4 million range. Then a showing at 860 United Nations Plaza. Finally, she’s got to finalize the RSVPs for the party she’s throwing at the Lucida that evening, a new glass Extell development on East 85th Street that is the first “green” building on the Upper East Side.

  Although Elizabeth had always planned to throw a party for top brokers in the $8.9 million penthouse apartment she has listed in the building, once the family learned about Teddy’s possible allegiance to LEX, they thought it best to invite all the LEX brokers. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Tom always told them, citing The Godfather: Part II. And that would include the “daughter” of Monique’s friend whose identity Kate quickly learned by making a discreet phone call to a broker friend of hers in LEX’s downtown office.

  The Chases are more than a little suspicious of Teddy’s relationship with LEX; after carefully rummaging through his desk, they found plenty of printed matter involving LEX listings and policies, which struck them all as very odd. Just yesterday Elizabeth had called Jonathan about possibly breaking into Teddy’s personal e-mail account—only Jonathan would know how to do this. Once again, the general consensus among the family was that they had to be very careful with Teddy.

  She returns from the closing and her first showings a bit before two thirty; her appointment at 860 UN Plaza is at three. The apartment is a “For Sale by Owner,” who has agreed to pay any selling broker a 4 percent commission, more than one might normally expect. Elizabeth had no time for lunch and eats a few pretzels instead. The client meeting her at the UN Plaza showing just happens to be Lance Roberts, the hotheaded bond trader who, when he discovered there was competition for an apartment he’d bid on, barged his way into a showing and physically attacked one of the other prospective buyers. It was Teddy who pulled him off the poor buyer, and then Teddy who punched Lance, as if to say, Are you insane?

  Lance had been the client of Elizabeth’s best broker friend, Barbara Fox, a lovely woman originally from Rocky Mount, North Carolina, someone who’s always managed to retain her impeccable manners in dealing with brassy, no-nonsense New Yorkers but who got fed up with Lance Roberts and stopped returning his phone calls.

  The day he finally got through to Elizabeth, he started off as pleasant as could be, thanking her profusely for returning his phone call and apologizing for his abominable behavior during the apartment showing way back when, and then got down to business.

  “You may or may not know this, Elizabeth, but I’ve been rejected by several co-op boards,” he began.

  “Actually . . . I’m well aware of it, and, to be honest, not at all surprised.”

  “I remember Barbara telling me that the president of the co-op board at 860 UN Plaza is a good friend of yours.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Elizabeth said.

  “Well, there’s an apartment for sale in the A-line that I’d like for my daughter, Kristina, who just graduated from college,” Lance said.

  “Wow—that’s a big apartment. What a lucky girl,” Elizabeth had remarked.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Kristina can stay there for the rest of her life. She can get married there and raise her children in that apartment.”

  Elizabeth paused for a moment, imagining a conversation with her friend on the co-op board. “The board probably already knows about your . . . unfortunate behavior,” she’d told Lance. “The truth is, you’re notorious. Lots of brokers around town have been talking about you and your antics.” She couldn’t help it.

  Lance Roberts remained
remarkably cool despite Elizabeth’s pointed words. “I was hoping that you could tell your friend on the co-op board that I’ve been reformed,” he said.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Well, believe it or not, I’ve taken anger management classes.”

  The thought of this gave her a big giggle on a very trying day. She gave in and agreed to show him the one listing.

  Elizabeth slips into a light Burberry raincoat with a hood—thundershowers are predicted on this warm May afternoon, Elizabeth knows; she’s obsessed with weather, and the Weather Channel is always on in the background—and reminds Violeta of her appointment with Lance. Then she takes the elevator down to the street, where Dave is waiting with the Mercedes. She’s glad that Lance Roberts agreed to meet her at the eastside building; the truth is, she has no desire to ride anywhere with him. “Hi, Dave,” she says as he opens the rear passenger door for her. “I forgot to ask you last week, how are your applications for grad school going?”

  Dave grins ironically and waits until he’s behind the wheel. “Actually, they’re sitting just where they were the last time you asked about them.” He puts the car in drive.

  “Dave, you cannot drive people around forever—you’re so brilliant, you’re wasted doing this.”

  “I could imagine worse things.”

  “You went to one of the best schools in the country,” Elizabeth reminds him. “And economics is a great field.”

  “I know, I know,” Dave says as he carefully maneuvers the car into Park Avenue traffic. “I’m getting to it.”

  “If you haven’t done those applications in six months, I’m going to have Chauffeurs Unlimited fire you,” Elizabeth jokes.

  Dave catches her eye in the rearview mirror. “You are tough, aren’t you?”