MARYKAYMOM
I totally apologize. All invited!
-8-
Whitney
WHITNEY’S CLIENT, GEOFF, LIVEDat the Four Seasons Residences on Lady Bird Lake. Jules and Whitney had been to parties there, sipped wine on a balcony that overlooked the whole glittering city. One night, Jules had gotten tipsy and stumbled into a grandfather clock, breaking off a piece of wood. A small sliver: Whitney told him to find the hostess and apologize. Instead, he wrapped it in a napkin, handed the evidence to Whitney, and went to refill his Scotch. She’d been on edge for the rest of the evening, watching him drink more (his British accent growing stronger with every sip), terrified someone would ask what had happened to the clock.
No one asked.
Wealth brought invisibility.
Whitney left the napkin in her empty champagne glass, placing it on the bar on her way out and trying to smile at the bartender who whisked the glass away.
—
AS GEOFF’S ASSISTANT HADinstructed, Whitney parked her car in the Four Seasons Residence Parking, then entered the Residence Lobby. Floor-to-ceiling white marble and a perfect temperature (she guessed 71 degrees) made Whitney feel as if she’d escaped hellish summer Texas, if only for a while.
In the center of the lobby, a Saarinen table held a stunning array of flowers in varying shades of lavender: dozens of glass vases holding delphinium and carnations surrounding a centerpiece of a hundred or more orchids. Whitney had read somewhere that Saarinen designed his iconic Tulip Table (a perfect circle of marble, quartz, or laminate somehow balanced on a single, cast-iron leg) to “clear up the slum of legs in the U.S. home.” Whitney appreciated both Saarinen’s creation and his sly, judgmental wit.
Circular orchid arrangements were hung overhead, in addition to at least a hundred exquisite, pale-purple, origami birds. Whitney moved toward the back wall of the enormous space, where a man with a white mustache stood between two towering birds made of paper. Whitney recognized them as the breathtaking work of the British sculptor Lisa Lloyd. Behind the man was a six-panel lacquer screen, golden cranes portrayed midflight. It was similar to one Whitney and Jules had seen at the Met during a New York trip. Painted in Japan in the late sixteenth century, the Met’s screen was titledBirds and Flowers of the Four Seasons.
The Four Seasons. Clever,thought Whitney.
“Hello, how may I help you?” asked the mustachioed man.
“I’m here for Geoff MacKenzie.” Whitney touched her silk caftan, her large gold earrings. Though Ballet Austin master classes kept Whitney a muscular size four, she’d stopped showing off her body recently. It felt freeing to wear flowing silks, though her Neiman Marcus shopper, Adele, had been surprised when Whitney sent a late-night, emailed request forcaftans after watching a documentary about Elizabeth Taylor in her later years. “How aboutvery shortcaftans…with heels?” she’d asked, and Whitney said sure.
“Can I get you a rainwater?” said the desk attendant—was that what he was called? “Butler” seemed apropos but outdated.
“No, but thank you,” said Whitney. She rubbed her sister’s locket between her fingers.
“Glass of something bubbly?”
“No, but thank you,” she repeated.
—
WHITNEY WAS NO LONGERsurprised when her client was a boy in sweatpants. His T-shirt was emblazoned with the wordGUCCI, which had been Whitney’s grandmother’s favorite brand. Geoff ambled from the gilded elevator toward Whitney as if he owned the place. Which, who knew, maybe he did. “Whitney,” he said. “I’m Geoff.”
“Very nice to meet you,” said Whitney. Geoff’s clasp was moist.
“Can I get a rainwater?” he asked the desk attendant.
“Of course, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“You da man,” said Geoff. The butler was a pro—he didn’t flinch.
As they climbed into Whitney’s Model X, Geoff noted, “Your car is so clean.”
“Red Bull?” asked Whitney. They always wanted Red Bull, these young internet-millionaires in sweatpants.
“You have green?” said Geoff, rolling down his window and tossing his rainwater into the street.
“Of course.” Whitney gritted her teeth, did not mention his littering, and gestured to the Platinum Yeti cooler she’d had installed in the back.
“Epic,” said Geoff. Whitney smiled. If he bought a doomsday bunker out in Buda, her commission would top six figures. He could have all the kiwi apple Red Bull he wanted.
