She shrugs one shoulder, curling her hand over her hip. If I hadn’t seen film evidence of her age, I would assume this is a woman in her forties. My own mother is more frail, constantly complaining about aches and pains and worrying about what happens next. If only she had this kind of vigor, although at least some of Sunny’s vigor likely comes from the privilege of her lifestyle.
“Well, I hate to see it go, but it’s practically a full-time job and I am supposed to be retired. Plus, you know how the market is,” she muses, running her hand along the velvet curtains that drape the four-poster bed. “You have to strike while the market is hot! You can’t hesitate and lose the offer of a century, after all. What kind of lunatic would do that?”
She pauses, staring at me meaningfully. I force my mouth into a polite, stiff smile and wonder if we’re still talking about real estate?
Then suddenly, she snaps her fingers and sweeps from the room, leaving me alone. “I’ll see you at dinner! Seven o’clock!” she calls out over her shoulder, then closes the door behind her.
Chapter 7
Maxwell
I can tell that Clarissa is anxious about seeming professional, but helpless to get out of Sunny’s neutron star-like gravitational pull. I have to admit, I can’t help but find it amusing. Stronger women than Clarissa have tried and failed to resist Sunny’s charms.
The veranda is absolutely magical, with torches burning around the egg-shaped perimeter of the sculpted concrete patio. Sunny still has at least a dozen servants working here, and they arrive at choreographed intervals to deliver a dizzying array of wines, cheeses, and impressive entrées.
I have seen this all before, of course. Sunny and my mother have been friends for a long time. When I was young, I was intrigued by the insinuations that perhaps my mother was not as drab and predictable as I thought. Perhaps her pearl-button blouses had not been buttoned up all the way up to the bottom of her chin for her entire life. As I got older, I realized that people are more complicated than that and assumed that there is probably a lot about my parents’ lives that I don’t know… and don’t want to know.
I’ve been here dozens of times. Maybe hundreds of times. I’ve been in every room. I know that two of the bathroom sinks were used as urinals by Jackson Pollock. I know that John Wayne passed out inside of the grand piano after James Dean borrowed his Cadillac and did not come back for a week.
I know that the bedroom furniture that Sunny claims was from Windsor Castle really is from Windsor Castle. There was an article in the National Enquirer some fifteen years ago that claimed it was all reproduction. Sunny sued them for two million dollars. And won.
&nbs
p; But everything here is new to Clarissa. I love watching it through her eyes. Clarissa is completely enchanted by every word Sunny says, which of course means that Sunny has to dial everything up to eleven. Every story gets more outrageous. Funny thing is, they are still all completely true. She just usually tones it down a bit for the mere mortals to process.
I admit that I had a momentary concern that perhaps Clarissa wouldn’t fit in here. But looking at her under the flickering torch lights, her golden hair swept high over her ears in a feminine, tousled bun, her shoulders shaking inside that flirty, midnight-blue dress, I can see how perfectly she fits. She seems just slightly rigid, as though she is constantly checking herself to make sure she is still in line. But when she gets swept away by a story or the intriguing delight of some painting or piece of furniture, she seems to be a natural fit.
When the maid brings her a glass of Moroccan Aït Soula, I’m relieved to see that she drinks it. She could use a little relaxation.
“Oh, wonderful,” Sunny exclaims suddenly, “I hope you like beef Wellington.”
Clarissa smiles. “Sounds wonderful.”
Sunny leans toward her, brushing the back of Clarissa’s wrist with her fingertips yet again. She keeps petting her, like Clarissa is a recently acquired kitten who’s gradually coming around.
“Beef Wellington was my second husband’s favorite meal,” Sunny begins, launching into a new story. “He would only eat three things: beef Wellington, poutine, and purple asparagus.”
Clarissa cuts a dainty triangle from the corner of her Wellington and places it delicately between her lips. I realize I’m staring when she glances at me inquisitively.
“Purple asparagus?” she repeats, as though that is the reason I am staring.
“It’s more common than you think,” Sunny continues, undeterred. “I tried absolutely everything to get him to vary his diet. We traveled the entire globe looking for more things that could satisfy his palate. To no avail. Finally, I just had to divorce him!”
Clarissa swallows and raises her eyebrows. “You divorced… over that?”
Sunny carves herself an impressive bite of the beef Wellington and stares at it almost ruefully for a moment before shrugging.
“I did my best with him, dear,” she explains patiently. “I am only human.”
The Wellington truly is delicious, and so is the lemon ice that someone brings me immediately after. Sunny uncorks an expensive-looking bottle of tequila and pours out several shots into gnarled blobs of glass on a tray that must be some kind of artistic, handmade shot glasses.
“But I have to admit,” she begins again, sucking her cheeks in theatrically, “my third husband made me understand just how good I had it with my second husband. At least Mortimer was generally in good spirits. Tommy was a beast! An absolute beast!”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Clarissa hiccups adorably, covering her mouth with the back of her hand in alarm as she tries to sip the tequila.
“There are many things that make a successful relationship. Temperament… Appetites… The ability of a person to anticipate and intrigue another person…”
She raises her eyes to me, blinking slowly.