My Southern roots are strong. During the Civil War my paternal grandfather, Frank Edgar Dey, enlisted as a private in the Confederate Army when he was sixteen years old and moved up in the ranks to become a brigadier general. He was captured four times, including at the Battle of Vicksburg in 1863, and was wounded while fighting against General Sherman at New Hope. My grandmother was born in Alabama and she and my grandfather were married at her family plantation. When they had children of their own, they raised them deep in the heart of Texas.
My father, Walter Pettus Dey, was a brilliant and urbane young man who graduated from both the University of Alabama and Tulane University Medical School. He was a surgeon/soldier of fortune and a captain in the Navy, who traveled the world as a diplomat and a medical inspector to the Far East under President Franklin Roosevelt. He spoke several languages and his work took him to many faraway locations, such as China and Japan, where he had wonderful adventures that sounded as if they belonged in a storybook. On one memorable trip, he fought pirates from a gunboat on the Yangtze River. On another, he befriended Vajiravudh, the last king of Siam.
Father was handsome, charming, intelligent, and well read, and these attributes made him quite the catch. He had been engaged several times, but his career and travels always came first…until he met my mother. His vagabond days ended at a cotillion in Richmond, Virginia. The sight of Frances Pearl Sudler, a beautiful Yankee from Philadelphia, turned this confirmed bachelor into an ardent suitor. At the age of fifty-eight, my father married my thirty-year-old mother (she was a divorcée, something that was considered so scandalous at the time that I didn’t find out until I was in my forties). Apparently my father’s very Southern sister could handle the divorcée part, but she never recovered from the shock of having a Yankee in the family. The couple settled in Richmond, although they traveled frequently.
My parents spent a lot of time in Florida and I was born there in 1941. They called me Madelyn Patricia, but I always preferred my middle name, because it sounded less formal. By all accounts I was a good little girl. I remember being spanked and sent to my room once, and that was for tilting my chair backward at the dinner table and chipping the sideboard behind me. That seems to have been the extent of my flirtation with juvenile delinquency. I played with my dog, Happy, and my cat, Fluffy, and I rode my horse, the Grey Ghost. The big drama of my childhood was that I fell off my horse and broke my hip when I was only four years old and had to wear an enormous body cast that, in photographs, looked like a medieval torture device.
Our home was beautiful and serene. There was never an argument, not even a raised voice. My parents were well matched, although their different backgrounds made for an interesting mix of parenting.
My mother was very cultivated. She spoke French, read extensively, played the piano beautifully, and excelled at embroidery and needlepoint. She was a delicate woman who frequently had what they used to call “the vapors,” meaning she would take to her bed.
My father, on the other hand, was my best companion and playmate. Other fathers went to work, but mine had retired soon after I was born, so he was around all the time and always ready for another adventure. He took me places and told me colorful stories about his travels.
I credit him with inspiring my life-long love of Southern history and literature, of all things Southern, in fact. When my father and I went to our local Episcopal church I was thrilled to sit in Robert E. Lee’s pew. On special occasions, we traveled to George Washington’s Mount Vernon to picnic on the lawn. I was in a choral group that sang Christmas carols for the last of the Confederate widows. Living in Richmond, the capital of the Confederacy, we were always conscious of the past and our family’s connection to it.
My mother may have been a Yankee, but she quickly embraced all the Southern charm essentials and imparted them to me. Southern women were strong in how they dealt with life’s vicissitudes,[1] but they did so in a calm, gentle way—hence the term steel magnolia. Femininity was always emphasized. Women never left the house without being perfectly groomed, with clothes and hair in place and, if you were old enough, a light swipe of lipstick for a pop of color. My mother never once owned a pair of slacks and always wore stockings and heels.
Men were gentlemen. They opened doors for ladies, stood up when they entered the room, pulled out their chairs at the table, and walked between them and the street to protect them from traffic. It all sounds so quaint in light of today’s more liberated social climate, but they were lovely times. Manners, which were so important to everyone, were passed down from generation to generation, and the goal was to be gracious and hospitable.
I attended Marymount, a Roman Catholic day school for girls located on the beautiful Paxton estate in Richmond. I had to wear a dowdy uniform (picture me in that), and I studied with strict French nuns who taught us French, Latin, Greek, algebra, literature, penmanship, and social graces. Every day at four we gathered for goûter, the French version of afternoon tea that included pretend “cocktails” made of juice or tea. It was a lovely ritual that taught us a lot about comportment. We learned what to wear, how to pour, and the proper way to hold a cup or a glass.
The nuns also emphasized the after-school “don’ts” that were so important in the conservative 1950s—no drinking, no smoking, no riding in cars with boys, and no public displays of affection…ever. I wonder what they would have thought of the Kardashians? I was extremely jealous of my friends at public school because they seemed to have more freedom—and infinitely more fun—than I did. Those strict nuns kept me on the straight and narrow, which was probably a good thing. Subsequently, for high school, I went to a Quaker boarding school in the Midwest, and by the time I was a senior I knew something about having a good time. I wasn’t “fast,” as they used to say, but I had six darling beaux and one particularly charming admirer who owned a convertible and a plane!
The fifties were the last golden years—a more innocent time, when we didn’t take drugs, we didn’t smoke or drink, and we did things in a group. We loved to dance and found it exciting to go to cotillions and parties. In a way, I think we had more fun because innocent pleasures weren’t boring to us.
My beloved father died when I was eighteen and my mother and I found it difficult to stay in Richmond without him. We sailed to Europe on a beautiful ocean liner, the Queen Mary, and went on a classic grand tour for a year. When we returned, we settled in Washington, DC—north of where we used to live, but still close to the South—so I could attend George Washington University, and I jumped headfirst into my new life as a coed.
One night, at a party in Washington, a friend introduced me to Lon Smith, a good-looking, mature (well, five years older than me) man, who was the head of Dun & Bradstreet, a very important job for someone twenty-five years old. It was pretty close to love at first sight, because three months later we were married. When you’re Southern and in your twenties, marriage is a top priority. My mother asked if I wanted a big wedding or a check, and I gave the right answer. I had been a bridesmaid at so many weddings that I was happy to do mine differently. We had a small ceremony, attended by our immediate families, and the blushing bride wore a short peach dress and a hat with a veil.
We set up housekeeping in Virginia, just a few miles from Washington, DC, and I found myself at the center of one of those newlywed sitcoms. While I commuted to school in Washington to study art history and archaeology, aspiring to work in a museum or an art gallery someday, Lon was at Dun & Bradstreet by day and went to graduate school at night for his MBA. We were so young and ambitious it never seemed to bother us that we were in constant motion. In 1963, I was thrilled to win a fellowship at the Smithsonian. I had my own desk at the Library of Congress and even learned how to read Egyptian hieroglyphics. In 1965, I graduated magna cum laude from GW, with a BA in art history. Then, I immediately started graduate school.
My classes were difficult, but a full courseload was easier than the domestic challenges that awaited me at home. Cooking dinner was one of them. I was completely inept in the kitchen—untrained, untalented, and, I dare say, uninterested. Like many busy young wives, I fell for the tempting photographs on the covers of the wonderful new convenience food known as the “TV dinner.” I bought these miraculous inventions and waited for them to be ready, not realizing that the three-course tray had to come out of the box and be heated before it could be called “dinner.” Thankfully, there was a Howard Johnson’s nearby for those nights when my culinary efforts were particularly disastrous. As I recall, we spent a lot of time there.
I received my master’s degree from George Washington University in 1966. I also started teaching art appreciation and a survey of Western art at GW, first as an instructor, then as an assistant professor. Standing in front of a class of 120 students, most of whom looked as if they were on their way to a sit-in, or auditioning for the cast of Hair, can be quite intimidating when you’re only twenty-four. I teased my hair, armed myself with chic suits and low heels, as if I were channeling Jackie Kennedy, and spoke about my passion: art history. It helped that I was tall.
Even though I was the same age as some of my students, I was living a completely different kind of life. I was really kind of a bore. This was a time when young people were protesting the war in Vietnam, smoking grass, growing their hair down to their rear ends, wearing ugly sandals, and destroying brain cells with all sorts of “mind-expanding” substances. For them, it was the Age of Aquarius. For me, it was as if old age had set in early. I had a plan and was focused on my future. I wanted to go places, and I felt that people who didn’t share my aspirations were morons. To this day, I can’t stand people who are unambitious. Back then, when I looked at pictures of Woodstock, I thought it was Armageddon.[2]
I worked hard at being a good teacher. Sometimes I stayed up until three in the morning preparing my lecture. The survey of Western art was usually scheduled for after lunch, and that was a problem. When I turned off the lights to show slides, some students would go to sleep…especially the fraternity boys who were forced to be there because the course was a requirement for a liberal arts degree. Still, I convinced myself that my students were taking me seriously until the day I walked into the classroom and found a note scribbled on the chalkboard. It was the handiwork of one of those shameless frat boys. They were always trying to flirt with me after class, and since some of them were pretty cute, it was a good thing—or a bad thing—that I was married. “My teacher is soft as bunny fur,” one of them had written, “I think I’d like to sleep with her.” A dubious compliment, but a compliment nonetheless. I smiled to myself, then gave a pop quiz that day to remind them who was boss. As you might imagine, I was a really tough grader.
Entertaining as they were, the pranksters in my regular classes were not my favorite students. I was more impressed by the older men and women who attended the continuing education classes I taught in the evening. Most of the men were veterans who had come back to school on the GI Bill, while many of the women were housewives. They were so dedicated and eager for knowledge. Because they were out in the world working, or managing a home and keeping a family going, they really knew the value of an education. Unlike the college kids, they would never miss a class. Their time at school was too precious.
When I was promoted to assistant professor, I made it my business to develop an interesting art history curriculum for my adult students, and what I came up with was innovative at the time. I would drive to Washington and carry my projector and slides to the Veterans Affairs building, where I lectured for hours at a time. I also created a three-week international study program that took students through the major art capitals of Europe. I was always looking for ways to make art history come to life.
Lon and I chaperoned the first group of students who signed up to study abroad, which was pretty funny because we weren’t much older than they were. We were off to a rocky start when we arrived in Europe only to discover that the tour company had kept the money instead of paying the places where we had reservations. Out came Lon’s credit card, and it was throbbing for the entire trip. On the second or third day, one of my students, the precocious daughter of a university president, disappeared with a flight attendant for a getaway and I was a nervous wreck until she came back in one piece. The highlight of the trip was when we offered a priest a ride on our bus and he graciously arranged for us to take a private tour of the Vatican. The sight of the incredible paintings—many of which were never shown publicly—made the whole trip, misadventures and all, worthwhile.
In the midst of teaching, commuting, and running a household, I discovered that I was pregnant. At first I was taken aback. I loved my job and I didn’t want to leave it. Then I realized the timing was perfect. My career was established enough for me to take a little time off for the baby and go back to work when I was ready. Meanwhile, I maintained a full schedule until I was about eight months pregnant and larger than the proverbial house.
When I look back, I can’t believe I wore those awful maternity clothes. I must have been quite a sight on campus. In those days there were no fashionable outfits for women who were expecting. Pregnant women walked around in huge tents that made us look even larger than we were. One of my dresses actually had a bull’s-eye to mark the baby’s location. Now that I think of it, I probably should have removed the stupid bow that always seemed to decorate those shapeless garments. It was supposed to make us appear girlish and innocent, even though the “bump,” as they call it now, was a dead giveaway that I’d had sex at least once. But I do think that today’s expectant mothers—especially the ones wearing Hervé Leger bandage dresses—have gone a little too far in the other direction: if I can see the baby moving, the dress is probably too tight!
Ten-pound Whitney Sudler-Smith was born on June 2, 1968. I put a lot of thought into what we would call the baby because when you’re working with a last name as common as Smith, you have to be creative. “Whitney” was the perfect choice: while it came from my mother’s Mainline, Philadelphia, side of the family, it is also very Southern. Sudler was my mother’s maiden name, and it was a nice alliterative companion to Smith. I thought that the hyphen added a touch of drama and made it a different name. There’s no other Whitney Sudler-Smith.
Whitney was the most beautiful baby ever born—I’m not saying that because I’m his mother—and he had a personality to match. He was a big baby, so he acted more mature than the typical scrawny newborn. He slept through the night and gurgled and cooed when he was awake, just like the Gerber baby. He was always happy and gregarious, which made motherhood so easy and enjoyable for me. I hadn’t spent much time around children, so I took the academic approach and read lots of books about bringing up baby. I remember dressing him in starchy little outfits with pleats and monograms (you can never have too many monograms), and just when he looked picture-perfect, he’d spit up all over himself, the way most babies do.
Right after Whitney was born, Lon had to attend a business training program in New York City, so we sublet an apartment on the Upper East Side for four months. Of course, there were parks in the neighborhood, but my favorite outing was pushing the carriage to Bloomingdale’s, the most popular department store in Manhattan at the time. It was a giant bazaar, filled with everything you ever wanted. I spent hours going from floor to floor. I was the thinnest I’ve ever been because Whitney was huge, and lifting him was like carrying barbells around all day. It was a fitness routine that rivaled any trip to the gym.
Back in Virginia, we moved into a house in Falls Church and hired a housekeeper. But I soon found that Whitney’s grandparents—Lon’s mother and my mother—were so devoted to their grandson that I rarely needed babysitters. They wanted to be with him constantly and I was all for it because they were such a good influence. I raised Whitney exactly the way my mother and father raised me. I never hold back when behavior is unacceptable, so Whitney was always being reminded, “don’t slurp,” “stand up straight,” and such. Honestly, Lon was such a gentleman that Whitney learned by his example. He saw his father open my car door, or stand when I entered the room, and eventually it became second nature for him to do the same. Even as a little boy, he knew to say “yes, ma’am,” and “no, sir,” to adults—he may still do it today.
Everything was very Father Knows Best and The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet in the continuing sitcom of my life, until Lon and I realized we were growing apart. Actually, we were so young when we married that maybe we were finally growing up. After fourteen lovely years of marriage, there was no acrimony between us—just a sense that we were moving in different directions. Our separation and divorce were completely civilized and our main concern was always our son.
When I think back, we were way ahead of our time. I even had a “manny,” a male nanny, to help. At this point, Whitney was attending school in Georgetown, so Lon and I each set up a household there and established a seamless coparenting schedule. I had Whitney on Mondays and Tuesdays, Lon on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and we alternated weekends. We made sure that he had everything he needed in both places, so he would always feel as if he were “home.” More importantly, Lon and I spoke frequently and were pleasant, respectful, and harmonious. There was nothing pernicious[3] about our relationship at the time, and we’re still that way after all these years. I couldn’t have picked a better father for Whitney, who never had to feel divided about his feelings for his parents.
The fact that Whitney was thriving and my domestic affairs were in order enabled me to focus on an exciting new career path. I loved being out and about in the art world. Recently I had transitioned from being a professor to an art advisor—a professional who connects collectors with the works of art they hope to acquire. It is a fast-paced, high-stakes profession that requires a good eye, a cool head, and strong relationships.
I partnered with a top art scholar in a company we called Arcadia, dealing in the rarest and most desirable nineteenth-century American paintings and watercolors. I would find the work (this was a time when it was still possible to make great discoveries—I’d get a call from someone saying, “My aunt has a Martin Johnson Heade, can you come take a look at it?”), and then I would have it authenticated. After we built a major collection for an important client, other collectors and museums wanted me to find acquisitions for them.
Paintings have taken me everywhere, from dinners at Buckingham Palace and Versailles to the White House, from the most hush-hush private collections to galleries and auction houses all over the world. The 1980s were very good to me. I met the most interesting people, including barons, senators, astronauts, and movie stars, and made a lot of money, enough to afford a wonderful lifestyle in Georgetown.
What a lovely life we had. Whitney was a terrific child, smart, creative, talented, and great company. He was popular and athletic at Georgetown Day School, where he played tennis, baseball, and golf, and he often went whitewater rafting with his father. He’s always been a great writer and illustrator. I still have some of the books he made. He and his friends started a newspaper for students in Washington, telling them where to go for the best movies, music, hot spots, and, of course, girls. He was trained to play classical guitar—something he still does every day.
After graduating from high school, Whitney attended George Washington University, my alma mater, where he excelled. Once he had his BA, he decided to go to Europe. I was hoping he would end up at the London School of Economics, but that was the last thing Whitney wanted. He studied at Oxford for the summer. Then he moved to Paris, where he studied French literature, and traveled all over Europe. My son was always very independent and managed to create a cosmopolitan life for himself—in a foreign country, no less.
After I divorced, I could have remarried several times, but being a good mother to Whitney always came first, my career came second, and having fun came third. I never dated when Whitney was in the house—it wasn’t that important to me. Then, while he was in England and France, I started rethinking my priorities. In 1989, a friend introduced me to Edward Fleming. He was a doctor, a prominent psychiatrist who founded the Psychiatric Institutes of America. On top of that, he was movie-star handsome, charming, an accomplished yachtsman, and a direct descendant of Robert E. Lee. He quickly swept me off my feet and onto his magnificent new motor yacht, the Silver Cloud. After we were married, it was anchors aweigh for the next year and a half, as we sailed from place to place.
The boat was beautiful, I’ll give it that. It had all the comforts and appointments of a luxurious home, and then some—a fireplace, paintings, antiques, silver, china, and comfortable furniture. The crew consisted of a captain from Brittany, a chef from Paris, and two deckhands. We’d dock in a wonderful location and spend time exploring. The Silver Cloud had everything, including bicycles and two dinghies, and sometimes we rented a car or a helicopter. Being on a yacht was a lovely way to spend time and was certainly the most civilized way to travel.
However, when you live on the water you lose all contact with the world. I assumed we would end up on terra firma[4] at some point, especially since my mother was ill and I wanted to be near her. But Ed tried to isolate me from everyone—and everything—I loved. The coup de grâce?[5] The moment that he proposed we renounce our American citizenship and move to Ireland for tax purposes. I love being an American and had no interest in becoming a tax exile. I decided it was time to get off the boat, even if it meant another divorce. It takes a lot of strength to walk away from a marriage, and let me tell you, it is very hard—no, almost impossible—to serve papers to someone who lives on a yacht and is always in motion. The process took a few years.
Meanwhile, I was back in Virginia, taking care of my ailing mother and contemplating the next direction my life should take. In May 1993, I accepted an invitation to a highly anticipated event in the Washington art world, the reopening of James McNeill Whistler’s Peacock Room at the Smithsonian. I had no idea how important that day would be for me. There, I ran into Arthur Altschul, one of my favorite former clients, and a friend for twenty years.
Ahh…Arthur. He was the last of his breed: brilliant, charismatic, a great businessman, and a true gentleman with infallible taste and the best sense of humor. He was quite the luminary: a partner at Goldman Sachs, a philanthropist, a major art collector, and on top of everything else, a divine human being.
I always admired Arthur and suspected he felt the same way about me. But as fate would have it, whenever we were together, one of us was inconveniently married to someone else. This time was different. Arthur told me that he was divorced, that he had been trying to call me, and that he would love to take me out. On the spot, he invited me to come to New York for an event at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
I accepted and we spent a wonderful evening together. When Arthur impetuously said, “Please stay,” I took him seriously. I viewed our sudden romance as an adventure, and I’m all about having adventures. At first I went back and forth to Virginia. Then we married and settled into domestic bliss at a very high level. Arthur would go off to Goldman Sachs or his family investment firm to be a mogul every day, while I oversaw the many moving parts of our private life. Arthur owned an apartment on Fifth Avenue and Overbrook Farm in Connecticut, and managing these enormous residences (and the staff that went with them) was like running a giant hotel.
The apartment, which had been decorated by three previous wives, was in need of a serious intervention. Armed with tear sheets, ideas, and wish lists, I called the one and only Mario Buatta, the acclaimed interior designer I had admired for many years. When I showed him my huge file of “Mario” clippings, Mario joked that I knew more about him than he did. Working together on this project was the beginning of a long-standing collaboration and a great friendship.
Then there was Arthur’s fabulous art. He had an important collection and he loved showing it. Groups came through the house to admire the great paintings—works by Georgia O’Keeffe, Winslow Homer, Mary Cassat, Childe Hassam—any of which would have been at home in a museum. When Arthur wasn’t busy running his financial empire, he was a very active board member at several major institutions, including the Metropolitan Museum.
I knew how much he appreciated beauty, so I always surrounded myself with my prettiest and most amusing girlfriends. I also planned parties that he would enjoy. My only rule was that nothing could be stodgy or boring; that’s where my Southern upbringing came in handy.
Early on in our relationship, Arthur asked me to host a holiday event for his partners at Goldman Sachs. When I think holiday, I think Christmas. I asked Arthur if I could unpack my decorations and go to town. Even though he was Jewish, he was all for it (and honestly, it never dawned on me that Christmas wasn’t a part of everyone’s holiday celebration). I ordered a gigantic Christmas tree and covered it with so many lights that we shorted the electricity in the apartment building. In addition to my collection of ornaments, I placed crossed Confederate flags at the top of the tree, an innocent attempt to pay homage to my Southern roots. Finally, out came my mechanical singing iguana, belting out “Feliz Navidad” at the push of a button. Instead of the usual Goldman Sachs party, it was a Santa-lollapalooza!
As the guests arrived, I realized that I was an anomaly[6] in this group. Most of the wives (and their husbands, for that matter) were Yankees through and through. I never felt so Southern in my life. I’m sure they thought I was a Southern eccentric—or a foreigner. My mother always referred to people whose background she didn’t understand as “foreign.” After the culture shock passed, we all became best friends.
It was the nineties, so the caterer was all for offering something trendy and metropolitan, like sushi, which I never eat, but this Southern girl knew that the quickest way to a guest’s heart is via pork. Yes, pork, as in good old ham and bacon. “Raise the hoof” if you want to win friends and influence people! We served Smithfield ham (irresistibly flavorful because the pigs are fed a diet of peanuts), pigs in blankets with French’s mustard, and strips of caramelized bacon. A shrimp tower, deviled eggs, Krispy Kreme donuts, and other classic Southern treats rounded out the menu and made for an evening no calorie- or carb-counting New Yorker would ever forget. Arthur loved it, and so did all his partners. They thought they’d gone to pig heaven, and the food was gone in twenty minutes.
Arthur and I had been married for about five years when his health started to decline. He was such a vital and vibrant man that he refused to allow illness to slow him down for a minute. He still enjoyed going out and having a very active social life. We never missed an opening at a museum, an auction house, or an art gallery, or a good party—at home or abroad. When we stayed home it was at Southerly, the beautiful waterfront estate we acquired in Oyster Bay, New York.
My favorite you-can’t-keep-Arthur-down story happened when we were flying to Paris on the Concorde to spend Thanksgiving with friends. About an hour into the flight, after the meal had been served, there was the sound of a big boom. The plane started shaking and losing velocity. I was paralyzed, figuring we were headed for the ocean. Arthur, who was sitting in front of me, starting ringing for help. I was terrified that he was having a heart attack, so I called out, “Arthur, are you all right?” Very calmly, he turned around and answered, “I’m fine. My dinner roll fell on the floor.” He was ringing for an attendant to pick it up. The plane made it to Paris (after a hellish eight hours because it had blown an engine). Fabulous Arthur never lost his composure, not for a moment.
Arthur passed away on Saint Patrick’s Day in 2002. I was devastated to think that I would never see this wonderful man again. We came to each other late in life and had so little time together. I was inconsolable. The only person who could cheer me up was my dear friend, fashion icon André Leon Talley. André is brilliant, outrageous, and imperious. After the funeral, he came to Southerly for a weeklong visit and took charge in his inimitable way, insisting that we put on our caftans, eat pizza, and watch way too much television. He was a wonderful distraction…until he left, and then it was time for me to accept my new status: widow.
Dismantling Arthur’s estate, starting with the New York apartment, kept me busy and distracted. I missed Whitney, who was living in Los Angeles, taking filmmaking courses and writing screenplays. I’ve discovered that when Whitney sets his mind to something, it happens. Before long, he was actually making films. His first indie features were Bubba and Ike, a comedy about rednecks (not sure where he learned about that subject), followed by Torture TV (another interesting choice), starring Danny Huston.
I stayed on at Southerly for six years after Arthur died, and eventually there were some happy times. I rescued two adorable minihorses, named them Beauregard and Maggie, and built a ministable and a paddock for them so they would have a proper home.
Speaking of proper homes, in 2004, I was dreading the process of finding a new butler for Southerly. I know, it sounds like a high-class problem, but identifying the right person to take charge of domestic affairs for a place that large is no easy feat.
Mario Buatta whispered in my ear that Mrs. A.C. Bostwick, a classic grande dame who maintained a huge estate in Old Westbury, New York, had passed away and that one of her prized employees would be on the job market. But not for long, he warned. Michael Kelcourse, Mrs. Bostwick’s formidable butler, would be snapped up as soon as word got out that he was available. Desperate socialites were already circling the wagons. I followed Mario’s advice and moved with indecent speed. I met with Michael immediately and persuaded him to come work for me, even as he was finishing his responsibilities in the Bostwick household.
Best thing I could have done. As anyone who watches Southern Charm knows, Michael is a consummate professional: smart, skilled, and with impeccable taste. Best of all, he has a killer sense of humor—dry as my favorite martini. I became “Mrs. A,” and Southerly was at its best. But with every passing year, the Long Island winters were getting colder and harder, and I started dreaming about having a place down South.
For some people, the obvious choice would be Palm Beach, but, honestly, I’ve never, ever, been a Palm Beach person. It’s fun to visit, but it’s not really Southern. It’s basically fake Regency in terms of architecture, and everyone I know goes there in the winter, so it’s a lot like a “little New York,” but with palm trees. If I went to a party I’d know everyone, which can be unexciting. And I’d never find a restaurant that served fried chicken and hush puppies.
Where was my dream destination? There was only one way to find out. With Michael at the wheel, I started taking road trips to various places in the South. I was a younger version of “Miss Daisy,” driven from location to location, trying to imagine myself in a new home. Although Michael was born in Michigan and has a high tolerance for cold weather, he was game to relocate. We explored properties in Virginia, Georgia, and the eastern shore of Maryland. Like Goldilocks, I was on a quest for the place that was not too big, not too small, but “just right.” Then I came to Charleston.
The cobblestone streets, the beautiful vistas of water along the Battery, the flowers, the food, the architecture, the overwhelming sense of tradition, genealogy, and history wherever you go (just like my beloved Richmond, Virginia)…what didn’t I like about Charleston? I’m not alone in my affection for this great city. In 2016, based on voter response, Travel & Leisure ranked Charleston number one on their list of the World’s Best Cities. Not number one in the country, but in the world, beating out places like Paris and London.
I looked at six or seven houses in Charleston, and I even considered buying a plantation. But when I discovered that you could have an alligator in heat turn up on your front porch, I decided that plantation living was not for me. The first time I set eyes on the Isaac Mikell House was during a driving tour of Charleston, when I was trying to figure out what kind of a house I wanted. I always loved houses with columns because they fulfilled my Gone with the Wind fantasy. The Mikell House was not for sale at the time, but I told my realtor, “That’s what I want.”
A year later, the house popped up on the market and I immediately flew down with Mario Buatta to take a look. The house was built in the 1850s by Isaac Mikell, a wealthy planter, as a gift for his third wife, Martha Pope, who must have been very impressed by her husband’s taste and generosity. It is a beautiful combination of classic Roman revival and Italianate architecture with large columns, intricate decorative touches, and walled gardens. Even though it is located in a busy part of Charleston, the property has an enchanted, otherworldly feel, as if it were a country estate. In fact, the proper name for it is an “urban plantation,” a rarity in real estate.
The house had deteriorated. For thirty years it had served as the Charleston Free Library. Subsequently, it was divided into two residences. It was dark and poorly decorated, but Mario saw through these problems and said that the house had beautiful bones. It still had great moldings, for example. But it needed to be put back together.
Michael recalls that I said (maybe too optimistically) that the house just needed a little painting. I must have succumbed to momentary denial, or insanity, because I knew it would take a tremendous amount of work to restore the place to its former splendor. We discovered that every system needed to be replaced or restored. I searched my heart and decided I was up to the challenge. I had found my Tara and I was ready to come back to the South. Let the renovation begin! I sold Southerly, placed my furniture in storage, packed up Michael and the animals, put Mario Buatta on speed-dial, and moved to Charleston to turn my dream into a reality.
It was a monumental job. Thankfully, I found a great architect named Lewis Graeber to oversee the project. I was on site every step of the way, living like a squatter in whatever part of the house wasn’t under construction. All I had was a bed, a lamp, and a bridge table, which I moved from room to room. I was surrounded by twenty-five to thirty construction workers, who managed to fill 125 dumpsters. Mario flew down about ten times to coax the house back to life. My beautiful bathroom, which so many of you have admired after seeing it on the show and in magazines, started out as a cavernous room with a rusty sink and an old toilet. Mario waved his magic wand and transformed it into the fantasy room it is today, complete with my infamous Marie Antoinette–like cabinet, because I vowed I would never again look at an unsightly toilet.
Of course, the gardens and the pool needed extensive work, too. Everything took time, energy, patience, and buckets of money. But when the renovation was finished, the house was everything I ever wanted.
And I was thrilled with my new hometown. My New York friends always thought the South was all about Gator Boys and Honey Boo Boo. They were amazed by how charming and beautiful Charleston is—and some of them have followed me here.
Michael, who is a Yankee, after all, could not get over how everybody on the street said “Good morning” and “How are you?” He thought it was bizarre behavior, until he got used to it. There is a graciousness, a warmth, and a sense of hospitality in Charleston that is quintessentially Southern.
In 2008, I opened my doors to new friends, new adventures, and, of all things, a movie camera. Whitney’s film career was really taking off and I was fascinated when he told me about his new project. He wanted to make a documentary about the fashion designer Halston. I love fashion, and I used to wear lots of Halston (I met him once in New York), so I thought it was a great idea. I was also intrigued by the era. I had never experienced Studio 54. I was too busy working in the 1980s, and Washington, DC, is not exactly the party capital of the world. I wanted to know more about Halston and his glamorous scene and I imagined other people would feel the same way.
Whitney asked me to be in the film, which he titled Ultrasuede (after Halston’s favorite fabric). I said yes—and there I was, dressed in what I hoped was slenderizing black, wearing my signature sunglasses, and raising a glass to his future success. Much to my surprise, I was completely relaxed. The whole process felt natural to me. And here I am now…a regular on one of Bravo’s most popular series and the proud winner of the 2016 Bravo Susan Lucci Award for Best Performance in a Reality Show. Then there’s the ultimate compliment, a tweet from the fabulous Lady Gaga: “Patricia on #SouthernCharm, like lookin’ in the damn mirror. Cheers queen.” From the convent school to Andy Cohen’s clubhouse (can I go on record as saying I have a crush on the fabulous Andy Cohen?), my life has been quite a journey. And, honestly, “reality” gets more interesting every day!
[1] Vicissitudes: a change of circumstances or fortune, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant.
[2] Armageddon: In the Book of Revelation, the place where the final battle will be fought between the forces of good and evil.
[3] Pernicious: having a harmful effect, especially in a gradual or subtle way.
[4] Terra firma: dry land; the ground as distinct from the sea or air.
[5] Coup de grâce: an action or event that serves as the culmination of a bad or deteriorating situation.
[6] Anomaly: something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected.