In between all these appointments and showings, Isabel and Kate and their mother have managed to do a little wedding shopping together: they’ve returned to Beth at Bergdorf’s to swoon over dresses and try on shoes. Isabel has no need for a wedding planner; her mother and sister will help her plan the perfect wedding.
And if all that weren’t enough, just last Saturday evening Isabel’s parents hosted an intimate engagement party for her and Michael in the private room at the restaurant Daniel. After midnight, the two sisters—each in a glittery, black-sequined Vicky Tiel dress, Isabel’s a plunging halter with a flowing silk skirt, Kate’s strapless, short, and skin-tight—climbed onto a table to sing to Jefferson Starship’s “We Built This City on Rock and Roll” for the family’s sixtysomething closest friends. By two o’clock in the morning when the last of the guests teetered out into their waiting cars, the women collapsing on their dates’ arms, a light snow had started to fall on the city. Isabel and Michael spent the next twelve hours in bed, sound asleep.
Today, a cold December morning with a hint of snow in the air, Isabel, Kate, and her mother are Christmas shopping together, part of their annual holiday ritual. The Chases buy carefully chosen gifts for their most important clients, and selecting these gifts is great fun for the girls. They’re strolling up Fifth Avenue together now, talking and laughing—three beautiful women in matching black tuliped Burberry coats that look like ruffled dresses. They get a little kick out of dressing alike sometimes; in fact, Elizabeth bought the coats as gifts for her daughters last Christmas. They always turn heads when they wear them.
The first stop is Saks Fifth Avenue, where Elizabeth spends considerable time at the La Mer counter on the ground floor with their favorite salesperson, Francis. “Oh, you and the girls have to buy our new suntan lotion,” he says. He never sells them anything they don’t need or he doesn’t believe in. They have been working with him for years, and the sight of him, tall, lanky, light blue eyes, short salt-and-pepper hair, glasses he wears at the tip of his nose, always makes them excited—they won’t shop the first floor on his days off. In turn, when Francis sees them coming, he always yells, “There are my girls!” In addition to the three La Mer suntan lotions they buy and the regenerating serum (“Great for your face when you sleep, and also to put on before your makeup, makes your face pop!” he says, and then, “Rub in upward circles and don’t forget your eyes!”), he takes them to the Chanel counter (where they buy three bottles of No. 5), the scarf counter (a Pucci scarf for a client), and then to buy a red Nancy Gonzales clutch for another client.
Next they go to the shoe salon on the eighth floor—a department “so big it has its own zip code”—where their favorite salesman, Phillip, has several selections all ready for them, each in their size. “How are my three favorite ladies in real estate?” he sings out when he sees them. “Elizabeth, I have the perfect pair of Jimmy Choo boots for you for your showings—on sale, of course, as resort just came in . . .” The girls squeal, about both the sale and the thought of the resort collection, always their favorite. He continues, “They have a nice kitten heel, just under two inches—I worry about you climbing the steps of town houses in stilettos.” Elizabeth laughs. “So, did your clients buy the house on West 13th?” Phillip has clearly read the blurb in the New York Times about Elizabeth showing an $11 million twenty-four-footer in the West Village.
For resort wear, he has a rainbow of wedges and sandals; for showings in the city, an array of the fall/winter collection, all 40 percent off—dozens of classic Louboutin pumps and Jimmy Choo suede booties. Eight pairs of shoes later—four for Elizabeth and two for each daughter—she tells the girls, “Christmas is coming early!” as she hands Phillip her Saks card for all of them and asks him to messenger them to her home.
They stroll up Fifth Avenue to the Bergdorf’s men’s shop next—cashmere Loro Piana scarves, Hermès ties, and a light blue Vilebrequin bathing suit patterned with little pink whales for Tom that Kate and Elizabeth pick out, along with an ice-blue cashmere bathrobe.
Exhilarated and starving, they stop at the restaurant on the third floor for their absolute favorite salad in the city—the Bergdorf Gotham salad and ice-cold lemonades—before making one last quick stop, at Argosy 59th Street, a classic antiquarian book and print emporium that’s been there for decades. Elizabeth decides she’d like to buy Tom a vintage 8” x 10” photograph of Marilyn Monroe, one of his all-time favorite stars. It’s a stunning black-and-white photo of a young seated Marilyn, wearing only a white terry-cloth bathrobe, smiling her trademark come-hither smile. “This was taken on the set of The Seven Year Itch, wasn’t it?” Isabel asks the salesman.
“That’s right,” he says, clearly impressed by her knowledge. “How did you know?”
“The robe,” Isabel says. “I remembered she wore it in those scenes where she’s leaning out the window. My sister and I were raised on old films, and this is a favorite.” Actually, Tom, at age twelve and living in Queens, got on a subway and sat directly behind Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio at the world premiere of The Seven Year Itch at the Loews State Theater in Manhattan! The girls’ favorite detail about the film was how Marilyn put her undies in the freezer because her apartment was so hot—their mother did the same thing in her un-air-conditioned first apartment in New York when she was twenty-one years old. She had moved here with their “Aunt” Sheila from Pittsburgh, the day they graduated. Elizabeth grew up in a sleepy suburb in Pittsburgh on a street called Darlington Road, and she and her best friend Sheila used to have sleepover dates in shorty pajamas on her parents’ porch. She shared a bedroom with her older sister Bobby and fell asleep every night holding her hand until she was six, when Bobby, age twenty-one, got married and moved to the house next door, leaving Elizabeth with her brother Mike, their parents Sam and Hilda, and a staff of four including a cook, housekeeper, driver, and a laundress who specialized in making pickles. (The ceramic barrel they used to make pickles is currently a waste basket in the master bedroom of the Chases’ beach house).
When it came time to go to college, Elizabeth enrolled at Syracuse University, not realizing that New York didn’t necessarily mean the New York. After her first drive from campus to the city (five hours without traffic), Elizabeth transferred back to the University of Pittsburgh, where Sheila went, and the day the girls graduated, with copies of The Best of Everything in their brown suede pocketbooks, they boarded a plane to New York City.
Their first apartment was on East 80th Street, a tiny one-bedroom where they slept with a box of pretzels between their beds, kept their undies in the fridge, and grilled tuna melts with an iron. When Elizabeth’s mother came to visit and discovered her ironing her suit for work, she cried. After that, Elizabeth had a mailing carton with a return label, and she sent all her ironing back to her staff in Pittsburgh.
Elizabeth, in the tradition of her own beloved mother Hilda, will not let the girls iron! She has them bring their clothing over as needed for Cecilia to launder and press, and they are returned in white waffle monogrammed laundry bags and garment bags, perfectly ironed.
With the Marilyn photo in hand, the three Chase ladies are finished with their excursion. In the taxi home, Isabel asks, “So I still haven’t found a Christmas present for the countess.” Yet another person on her list whose gift seems elusive. “Any suggestions?”
“What do you get for someone who truly has absolutely everything?” Kate asks, a cliché, but the truth. Isabel thinks, with a little surge of joy, of their new puppies from Delphine, which she and Kate have named Daisy and Lilly—names that sounded so adorable with Dixie—and smiles.
“What’s going on with her these days?” Elizabeth asks.
“Nothing new,” Isabel says. “She’s still asking to see more properties. And she wants to go back this afternoon to the town house on 82nd that I showed her.”
“Did she say she’d bring her husband?”
“She
didn’t mention it, but I’m sure not.”
“Maybe a spa day . . .” Elizabeth says. “We’ll think of something.”
“Shoot, I have to jump out here,” Isabel says. “Meeting Delphine, I’ll call you after!”
“It’s your first comeback with her,” Elizabeth reminds Isabel. “That, at least, is hopeful!”
As Isabel walks to her showing, her cell rings. It’s Lawrence Bennett.
“Hi there, how’s everything?” Isabel asks. “And how are all the twins?”
“Everyone’s great,” Lawrence says, “though of course the grown-ups are a little sleep-deprived. And by the way, thank you for the gifts. That was incredibly thoughtful of you.”
“You’re welcome,” Isabel says, surprised at his graciousness; it was Isabel’s contention all along that Lawrence was the more difficult of the two to win over. In fact, he’d been downright rude on a couple of occasions.
“I was wondering if you might have any other listings to show us,” Lawrence is saying. “We’re still where we are, bursting at the seams, as you can imagine, so we’re definitely still looking.”
“Of course I can show you a few things,” Isabel says. “I’ve got a couple of new listings that I think might work very well for you. What’s your schedule like?” She spends another few minutes on the phone with Lawrence, and then as soon as she clicks off, she calls her mother to tell her the news.
“Fabulous!” Elizabeth says. “I just walked in the door, the dogs are going crazy. I’ll call you back.”
As her mind whirls with potential apartments for the Bennetts, Isabel walks by an antiques store she’s never seen before and decides, looking at her watch (she has fifteen minutes or so), that there is time to go in and maybe find a little treasure for the countess. She steps into the shop and is greeted by an exceedingly tall, thin man dressed in a tweed jacket and silk bow tie. His posture is a little stooped, giving him the air of a large, slightly ungainly bird. A stork, perhaps.
“May I help you?” His accent is British.
“I’m looking for a gift . . .” Isabel says.
The man laughs, a low, reedy laugh that Isabel finds instantly appealing. “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he says as the chuckle subsides. She spots it right away—the absolutely perfect present for a countess who has it all.
“May I see that?” she asks the man with the bow tie.
“The nineteenth-century botanical?” he says, pointing to a tiny print. Isabel holds the print in her hands. There, contained by a simple yet elegant gold frame, is a cluster of delicate flowers: pink, blue, and white delphinium, their name rendered in graceful black script at the bottom. “The person I want to give this to is named Delphine,” she explains. “I’ll take it.”
“How perfect!” says the man. As he busies himself wrapping and bagging the print, Isabel takes a peek around—she finds a fabulous crystal-faux-pearl-and-brass vintage Chanel necklace that she grabs. This will be for her mother, and then she chooses a 1970s Yves Saint Laurent goldtone pendant with a “ruby” at the center that Kate will love.
“Come again,” the salesman calls in his cheery, British-inflected voice as Isabel leaves. She promises that she will, and next time, she’ll bring both Kate and her mother with her, who, she says, “are big shoppers.”
As the door rattles behind her, Kate calls to tell her that K. K. Pearlbinder, the doorman-dating client, isn’t the only shareholder her doorman is having sleepovers with. He’s been cheating on her with apartment 10C, a bigger and better apartment with an additional bedroom and a library!
“Oh, that’s an only-in-New York story!” Isabel says.
Isabel arrives at the twenty-five-foot limestone town house at precisely four o’clock, right on time. Delphine isn’t there yet, so Isabel uses the time to make some calls: her mother, her brother, and then Alex Fein and Alyssa Ostrow, as well as Lizzy Banks and her partner, Stephanie Silver, the lipstick lesbian couple who are about to go before the stuffy co-op board. Still no sign of Delphine. She’s always been so punctual; the few times she’s run a little late, she’s always called to let Isabel know. Isabel calls her cell, but it goes straight to voice mail. Something is odd.
She rings the bell to see if the exclusive broker, Jed Garfield, has shown up. Jed answers the door and asks, “Where’s the countess?”
“I was hoping that she came early and was already here—I haven’t heard from her and can’t reach her,” Isabel says.
“Hmmmmmmm,” Jed says to himself.
Isabel tries her again, but Delphine doesn’t pick up. Isabel leaves a quick message: “It’s Isabel, I’m at the house waiting! It’s about 4:20—you’re never late, hope you’re okay! Call!”
Twenty minutes later, Jed says, “Is this like her not to show up?”
“I’m so sorry, this is most unlike her. I’ll be in touch to reschedule when I hear from her. I’m so sorry to have wasted your time.”
“Hmmmmmm,” Jed says again, and turns off the lights and shows Isabel out the door. “If it were any other broker, I’d be angrier!” he says and kisses her good-bye. Jed and Elizabeth are old friends, and he is one of the top town house brokers in the city.
When Isabel gets home, there is an enormous bouquet in her lobby. “This just arrived for you,” her doorman tells her. The bouquet—an explosion of pink, cabbage roses, peonies, hydrangeas, and parrot tulips in a big seafoam-colored square glass vase—is so huge, she needs her doorman to help her up with it. Isabel opens the envelope, which is made of thick, cream-colored paper, and reads aloud the note contained inside.
My dear Isabel,
I am so very sorry that I was unable to cancel our appointment before you went to meet me. I will not try to excuse myself. I went out for a little Christmas shopping this morning and returned home with one of my migraine headaches. These headaches are exceptionally painful, agonizing, really, and they often last many hours. I took my medication and thankfully fell asleep. When I woke up I realized that I’d missed my appointment with you. I’ve thought about this unspeakable rudeness very carefully and decided it was better to messenger you an apology rather than call. And then I had an idea of how to make up for my thoughtlessness. I managed to get a hold of Fritzie, and he has enthusiastically endorsed my idea. He and I would like to offer you and your young man a week’s stay in our little Parisian pied-à-terre. It’s a small place on the rue de Bac, charming in every regard. My assistant will be in touch with you to let you know when the apartment will be free. We of course offer to pay for your plane tickets and will make sure the kitchen is well stocked in anticipation of your arrival. I am enclosing a small photo of the apartment. I will call you tomorrow to reschedule our appointment.
As ever,
D.
The photograph shows an appealing living room outfitted with tufted armchairs covered in wine-colored velvet, and a marble-topped table upon which rests a bowl of chocolates.
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth
Time Warner Center
Columbus Circle Dream. 75th floor with 360-degree views from Central Park to the Hudson River, 4 bedrooms; 5-and-a-half baths; 30 foot living room with separate formal dining room and EIK; 32 feet of windows in two-room master suite. $28 million.
The next morning Violeta announces on the intercom, “It’s Bart Schneider again.”
“What is this, the third time he’s called?” Elizabeth asks.
“The third time today,” Violeta says. “Yesterday he called—”
“I know, five times. It’s ludicrous!” Elizabeth says.
“Maybe you should talk to him again,” Violeta suggests.
“Nothing to say. I told him any number of times that the sellers won’t sell to him now, no matter what he offers. I told him there was another accepted bid on that loft. But does he listen to me? No. I told him not to start lowering his b
id like that—it’s always the kiss of death after you have a contract out.”
As she is talking, Elizabeth starts to go through the foot-and-a-half-tall pile of papers on her desk, searching for an exclusive agreement, and the phone rings again. “Violeta, get that please, I have to find this.”
“It’s Robert Morgenstern.”
“I’ll take it.”
Robert Morgenstern is a hot young developer who left a huge position at a hedge fund to go into real estate. Six feet tall with dirty blond hair and green eyes, he looks like Brad Pitt meets Ferris Bueller (thanks to a constellation of freckles and a terribly mischievous manner). Robert is converting a twelve-story rental building on the coveted corner of 82nd and Lexington into a luxury condominium with full-floor 3,700-square-foot private residences.
“Elizabeth,” he says, “it’s been too long.”
“It has,” she says, “and we don’t like when we don’t hear from you for such a long time. How is 82nd Street coming? The girls and I all have clients for it.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” Robert says, and then she hears him yelling in the background, something about a fantasy football league that night, actually. Elizabeth laughs.
“I’d like to send a car to bring you and the girls over to have lunch and a hard-hat tour—I want you to be the first ones in to see it. We’re a few months away still from being able to actually show, but I know no one can help me build the buzz better than you three.”
“Love to,” Elizabeth says. “E-mail Kate or Isabel, let’s do it next week.”
Hot Property Page 24