Family Trust Page 3

  “Cricket Pierpont, at the New York Historical Society dinner.” Bubbly Cricket would help take his mind off that stuffy crowd, he thought with a smile.

  Another Cricket, Alice thought. It was hard to separate out who he was referring to at times because they all seemed to have the same first name.

  “Anyone else that week?”

  “Bee Frothingham, Bitsy French, Whitney St. Clair. Bee and Bitsy are dinners; Whitney’s a lunch event.”

  “Is Morgan Devonshire back from Wales?”

  “Sure is. She’s doing a tent at the Harriman.”

  “Is she? Morgan, then.”

  “Check,” Alice said. “One down.” She moved on at once to the next foil-lined envelope.

  “Here’s a new one. Embalming Awareness Society. Dinner.”

  Edward winced. “Dinner?”

  She shrugged.

  “Decline with contribution,” he said, shaking his head. He had eaten while doctors described heart transplants, organ donations, and prostate cancer, but slicing into a filet while watching a presentation on the embalming of the dead was a step too far.

  “Okay.” She shuffled her envelopes, unfolding a gold-edged, rose-tinted paper. It was a personal note to Edward, included in the invitation for the Antibiotic Awareness Gala, from an old girlfriend of his. She had once suffered a bad case of tonsillitis that was resistant to antibiotics. She urged his attendance.

  “Strange that she didn’t just have her tonsils removed,” he said. “But she was a singer. I guess that makes a difference. Anyway, she married her ENT doctor, so all’s well that ends well. Where’s the event?”

  “The River Club.”

  “White tie?”

  “As always.”

  “I’ll take Minnie Forehand.”

  “She’s married.”

  Edward cringed, but lost hardly a step.

  “Deb Norwich.”

  “She’s on the board. She once had a resistant strain of mono. So she’ll be there already.”

  He shrugged. “Cricket St. James, then.”

  “She’s in Paris.”

  “She’s always back by Labor Day.”

  “I’ll call her tonight.” Alice said, standing to refill her coffee. Edward declined another cup, opting instead for a glass of fresh orange juice, which Alice poured from the crystal pitcher she had filled in the morning. She had the chilled, green bottle of Pellegrino in her hand before he even asked, knowing he liked bubbly mineral water in his freshly squeezed orange juice. If it were afternoon, she would pour the Pellegrino into cranberry and orange juice together, the drink she called his “afternoon virgin.”

  Not only did Alice not mind performing these little domestic tasks—she actually considered them to be a treat, a perspective that was purely the result of Edward’s charm. Anyone who has prepared a meal knows the creator’s pride of watching it be eaten with pleasure. Edward received all the gifts of his life—and they were ample—with such cheerful animation that it was a distinct pleasure to bring him anything he enjoyed.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” she said, handing Edward the cool crystal glass that was half full of juice, and placing the bottle of mineral water on the desk, “why aren’t you taking Bunny to any of the parties?”

  Edward’s face clouded.

  Alice persisted. “You were seeing her quite a lot over the summer.”

  “We’re neighbors out at the Hamptons,” he said, attempting to sound casual. “How can I help it? She’s practically…”

  Alice peered closer. Edward studied the floorboards as he spoke.

  “She’s practically in the family,” he finished quietly. Averting his eyes from Alice provided him with no relief. When his eyes caught the wool tassels of the Turkish patterned rug beneath his desk, he could hardly avoid the thought of Bunny. Her parents’ house had a dining room rug just like that one. Everything there was so much the same, as if the whole twenty-two room Tudor were an annex of his own house.

  The pictures were hung at the same height, in the same places. You could count four relatives to a room, the oldest in the prominent spot over the fireplace. Candelabra held court from the east and west poles of the mantel, a gilded rectangular mirror presided over the couch. Either the upholstery or the curtains would feature an Eastern pattern with flat-capped monkeys jumping through a floral jungle—but not both. One gigantic oil painting of a familiar landscape would loom in the hall, sporting art would line the study, all with heavy, gilded frames that would crush like dull guillotines.

  One would find, in Bunny’s parents’ house, the flattering debutante pose of an aunt remembered only in her wheelchair. Fresh flowers were scattered in vases to catch the morning and afternoon light that shone predictably, as if instructed, into regular areas of the house. Persian area rugs were thrown down geometrically over the polished wood floors, chair rails shone white against the elegant brick reds of the plaster walls, grandfather clocks, umbrella stands, hand-painted lamps sat in the same corners of the same rooms, as if the families had merely spliced one cell into two.

  Bunny’s father, Randall Stirrup, had died. He had been a business partner of his dad’s through at least a dozen profitable ventures. Every summer that he could remember, the Kirklands had spent together with the Stirrups in the Hamptons. Their mothers were so close, they had even put Bunny and Edward under the care of the same nanny one summer.

  Thank God Bunny went to Choate for the equestrian program, instead of St. George’s, where Edward went, mainly to sail. He at least had had that interlude, high school and college, without Bunny looking over his shoulder. And Bennington was far enough away that he hadn’t seen too much of her when he was at Harvard. But she always came home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and then came the summer.

  Edward remained silent, thinking that Bunny had been arranged for him so perfectly, so long ago, he wondered whether she were merely an invention of his parents.

  Alice, saying nothing, poured the Pellegrino into his drink.

  “Thanks.”

  “You have an event with Bunny tonight,” she reminded him gently.

  “Can I skip it?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “No, sir. You’re being honored. And so is Bunny. She’s done a bit of work for the charity.”

  He sighed. There was no way around that.

  “What’s the event?”

  “Armani for Everyone.” Alice stifled a laugh as she described an unusual program of high-end closet-cleaning for charity. Bunny Stirrup chaired the committee that collected secondhand clothes by Giorgio Armani, and other participating designers, for distribution to the homeless. The outpouring of goodwill, apparently, was based on the assumption that high fashion was a universal need. In an event designed to coordinate with the Armani retrospective anniversary at the Guggenheim, Bunny and Edward were to be honored for their contributions, hers personal and his financial.

  The event had diplomatically overlooked a glitch in the well-meant program. All the donated clothes had fallen in between the American sizes of two and six, because the charitable impulses of the rich only took them so far. People didn’t just go and donate Armanis that still fit them. Only the very hungriest of the homeless fit into those clothes, and Bunny had personally rejected all photo opportunities with the sorry souls. But the party would proceed as planned.

  Edward shook his head. “What’s the dress?”

  “Armani, of course.”

  Alice mentioned that Bunny had been by the office this morning. She said she wanted to know which Armani tux he was wearing, and if he were going with his club cummerbund or a vest. It was essential for their outfits to be harmoniously coordinated, as they would be photographed together on the podium for The New York Times.

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “She’ll meet you at the Carlyle, promptly at seven, for a drink before you go.”

  Edward groaned. She wanted to catch him at home so she had time to send him back to his room to change. He tol
erated his mother’s dominance because he felt sorry for her, but he’d never let Bunny, or any other woman, keep a leash on him.

  “Maybe we’ll miss each other,” he said hopefully.

  “She’ll be at Bemelmans.”

  Edward, standing, checked his Patek Phillipe watch.

  “Where’s the party?”

  “It’s at the Guggenheim.” She smiled, knowing Edward’s reaction to the circular museum.

  “The Slinky!” Edward buried his face in his hands. He hated doing events at the Guggenheim. He got so dizzy standing anywhere in the middle of that spiral; everywhere you walked, you were on a ramp, and standing in the middle made you feel like you were spinning down a drain.

  “I’ve got to run out and get some Dramamine.” His face did look a little green; whether the Guggenheim or the Bunny factor had spoiled his mood, Alice couldn’t say.

  He heard the phone ringing, and his muscles tensed.

  “Forget it,” he said to Alice, indicating the phone. “If it’s Bunny, she’ll call again in ten minutes.”

  “Okay. Where shall I tell her you can be reached?”

  “I can’t be reached,” he said. “I’m out for the day.”

  In response to her disapproving stare, he added, “Don’t worry, Alice. I’ll be there. I’ll meet her. I can handle Bunny.”

  She shook her head imperceptibly. I doubt it, she thought. Bunny was closing in, Alice could feel it. There were forces stronger than Edward’s charisma that bore down upon him, forces that were set on connecting his horizontal space of the family tree to Bunny Stirrup in time to perpetuate the Kirkland heritage. Alice wished a way out for him, but knew it was as unlikely as Edward’s mother wearing a Betsey Johnson minidress to tea.

  What was one tiny personality in the great corridors of Manhattan? His family had been here before the Social Register even had its name. Edward would do as they all had done before him, and Alice felt the time was drawing close. He would marry, and if he didn’t face the fact himself, his mother would be likely to get involved. Catherine DeBeer Whitney Kirkland who, personally, since the moment of her birth, had owned eleven percent of South Africa’s largest diamond mine, would see to her own agenda soon.

  Alice looked at Edward with sympathy, wishing he could stay the same, knowing he could not.

  “Cover for me?” he asked her, with the eagerness of someone for whom asking was merely a necessary routine that preceded the answer yes.

  She paused, smiling sadly at him.

  “I’ll take Jenny Mayfair out for lunch. Will you call Jenny? Please? Ask her to meet me at Balthazar.”

  “All right, Edward,” she agreed. She smiled, watching him relax with a great relieved sigh. It was so easy to be nice to him. “Are you reachable for anyone else?”

  He thought a minute, collecting his things to leave.

  “Well, Mother, of course.”

  “Needless to say.”

  “Nobody else.”

  She nodded.

  “What would I do without you, Alice?” He kissed her cheek quickly before darting for the door.

  She grinned. “I don’t know, but if I were you I’d take the stairs. You never know who you’ll meet in the elevator!”

  “You’re good!” Edward called from the hall.

  CHAPTER 3

  Armani for Everyone

  Bunny Stirrup didn’t need a mirror. She caught a dazzling image of herself in the admiring eyes of everyone she passed as she circulated in triumph through the stylish crowd at the Guggenheim. The thousand details that Bunny had occupied herself with as chairwoman of Armani for Everyone had blended into an absolutely brilliant event, and she ascended the gallery in awe of her own mastery.

  She had worried a bit about the location. The museum’s retrospective of designs by Giorgio Armani, Milanese icon of minimalist chic, was the first backdrop she ever felt she might have to fight for prominence. Clusters of mannequins draped in the crisp elegance of Armani’s deconstructed gowns occupied the gallery walls in backlit groups of three and four, organized by color. The gallery lighting had been softened to a romantic, night-light tenderness. The exhibit space Bunny had just left, a darkened room filled with shimmering silver gowns, was a vision of flight, dream, and wonder, with a ringing background of Eastern sacred music enhancing its mysterious appeal.

  The mannequins were headless, minimizing their visual competition with the event’s chairwoman. To be safe, Bunny stuck to the rooms with neutrals, the better to be seen in her silver-sprinkled, flame-red gown. Her tiara, which marked her as chair of the event, she had on loan from Harry Winston. Sixteen carats of diamonds sparkled in her hair like dew on the petal of a perfect rose. After her second glass of wine, she felt the tiara simply belonged on her head, and the thought of giving it back to Winston for someone else to wear filled her with indignation.

  Where is Edward? she wondered, hurrying her step. If I had done a dinner, I could have kept better tabs on him.

  The Guggenheim could do three hundred for dinner, but one thousand for a reception. Bunny couldn’t bear to lord it over the lowly former, and opted to do a cocktail reception with heavy hors d’oeuvres. After all, tonight she would stand in the famous rotunda, encircled by the Frank Lloyd Wright spiral that drew the eye upward to a higher consciousness, awash in publicity, receiving her award. Benefactress to the humble homeless, dispenser of fashion riches to them all, Bunny would stand next to the handsome Edward Kirkland, his Armani tux and tails perfectly coordinated to accent her dazzling gown. She would gleam with diamonds and modesty—after all, this was a charity, and modesty was the appropriate pose—as she was photographed in glory, arm in arm with her catch.

  And he would be her catch after tonight, Bunny told herself. Her talks with Edward’s mother had moved from general to specific about the day Bunny Stirrup would marry Catherine Kirkland’s son. Having crossed that perilous bridge over if to when, Bunny was assured that the path to I do had been laid. She was steps away from launching the blessed wedding event in all its splendor.

  Edward’s mother was prepared for greatness. She had assured Bunny that the Kirklands in their majesty would make Charles and Diana look like a couple of frumps. The picture of Bunny and Edward taken tonight would be a perfect crown for the glorious wedding announcement that Bunny’s social secretary was composing for the Sunday Times. Radiant and glamorous, their well-bred charitable credentials on display, Bunny and Edward would be the world’s envy.

  So where was he? She grew conscious of her hasty step and paused, enjoying her visible position in front of some deliciously drab men’s suits. She decided to search the rooms that housed the museum’s permanent collection, where wine bars and appetizers were set up. Edward always seemed to be eating at these things.

  Suppressing a frown, Bunny drew in her breath and reminded herself to occupy the moment.

  She caught the eye of Morgan Wyeth, the party poser who had worked with her all afternoon on the proper flutter of her eyes when she accepted her award.

  “Avoid the big smile, Bun-bun; in the camera it’s all chin,” he had cautioned. Bunny was stung, but she remembered his tip. “Go with the left shoulder raised, head tipped down toward it. It’s a beautiful pose: all innocence—the village girl at the festival—a wreath of flowers in her hair. It’s Giselle! You can do it. And turn your eyes toward Edward. Nothing is as photogenic these days as a good, steady look of devotion.”

  Morgan winked at her, and Bunny felt her power.

  Yes, Bunny thought to herself, stroking her tiara, I am in the moment! I’ve caught the wave!

  When Bunny heard that Edward was going to London without her, ostensibly to buy a dog, she had impulsively joined her friend Whitney St. Pierre on a beach vacation in Mexico. Camouflaging themselves under Hermes scarves and Chanel sunglasses, they spoke French to each other in the airport until they were sure that nobody on the flight to Miami knew them. The first-class cabin was safe, and the flight to the Baja peninsula was so anon
ymous that they even reverted to their native tongue.

  Their destination was “Girl in the Curl,” a surfing retreat taught by Pacific Paige, motivational speaker and best-selling author of books on improving relationships. Having been conceived on a surfboard (which was then at rest in the sand, he explained to a confused member of the audience), Pacific had the lover’s momentum from the start.

  Bunny didn’t surf, nor did she know anyone who did, but Pacific Paige’s retreats were all about conquering the new and unknown. His book, a tattered copy of which Whitney had lent to Bunny, claimed that any woman who could occupy the moment had an aura of irresistibility. This aura would pull friends and lovers in like a wave.

  It sounded a little flaky, but Whitney swore that four, count them, four of her friends had gotten engaged within months of attending the retreat. And not just engaged: properly, and profitably. Bunny agreed to go, if only to get a mysterious suntan with which to greet Edward on his return. And it was working. After the weekend in which she waxed a surfboard while chanting, along with twenty other women, an ancient Hawaiian mantra (so effective and covert they had to sign a promise not to repeat the words outside of the retreat facility), she had caught the wave. She returned to New York feeling fearless and magnetic, and began claiming Edward with more authority than she had ever risked in the past. Tonight she would pull him under.

  Armani for Everyone, the first big charity event of the fall season, was an important night for a lot of people. Leslie Davis had her husband, Dick, by the arm as she hobnobbed with contemporary sculptor Istvan Grotjan, throwing out as a bone the possibility that she and Dick might fund an important collection of nonobjective art. More than once she carelessly mentioned her interest in serving on the governing board of the Guggenheim. A word from Grotjan would get her into the position just vacated by Armello Canadida’s untimely demise.

  In the Thannhauser gallery, Isaac Mizrahi was locked in an animated bond of mutual admiration with Phillip Wilson, an experimental theater director known for his boundary-breaking “mod-umentaries.” Elia Mercer, a buyer for Bergdorf Goodman, had cornered Polly McGover, the style editor at Vogue, and was quietly making the case that Donna Karan, more than any Italian designer, was the proper heir to Armani’s minimalism. Judy Armoire, cocurator of ceramics at the Met, pursued Guggenheim board members throughout the spiraling floor plan in her quest to land the open position as curator of the museum’s Venice location.