Elizabeth@CannondaleC&G.com writes:
Leigh@GildingLandscaping.net writes:
The following day, Leigh entered Brioche with her typical flourish. Most days she was overdressed and looked like a walking billboard for Vogue’s priciest front ads. Today, however, she was dressed down—although she still exuded the same expensive look she always aimed for. Her outfit was a tight, black, terry workout suit with a pale-pink tank top and black Prada sneakers. She was carrying a teal-green Hermès purse. Despite looking like she was headed to the gym, she wore two-carat antique diamond earring studs and a striking band of emerald-cut one-carat-each diamonds. Her makeup was appropriately light for daytime, her hair bounced in a high ponytail, and her nails were perfectly manicured in nude.
“Hi, ladies,” said Leigh as she sat and dumped her Hermès purse on the floor next to her. “Did you see the size of the carrot muffins? They look fab. Who wants to share one with me?”
“They are,” said Abby. “We just had one.”
“I’m getting my own then,” said Leigh. “I’ll skip lunch.
“I wish they weren’t so busy here,” huffed Leigh as she sat back down with a giant muffin and a generous side of whipped butter. “Their customer service sucks. I’m starting to go through caffeine withdrawal from my morning coffee. I might as well just add sweetener and cream to the twelve-cup coffee carafe and drink it directly from there. I just ordered an extra grande latte. Given the backup at the barista bar, the waitress is going to bring it over to me. Oh, did either of you want another coffee? I didn’t think to ask before.”
“No, thanks,” Abby said.
“I’m still working on my tea,” Elizabeth added.
“So what volunteer work for Jack’s benefit are you going to saddle me with?” Leigh asked, smiling.
“Adair thinks it would be nice to bring in fall perennials, like sedum,” said Elizabeth. “Do you know a good source where we can buy them? After the event, Adair wants to leave them on the property as a thank-you to the association that runs The Glass House for cutting the estate rental price for the charity event.”
“Yes,” said Leigh. “There’s a great place in Bethel that’s, like, half the price of the source I used in Brooklyn. Classically designed ones would offer an interesting contrast to the modern buildings. Let me know how many and where they have to go. I’ll make sure it gets done.”
“Sounds perfect,” said Elizabeth. “Concerning payment—let me know if the company needs to be paid in advance or if it will invoice us. Adair gave me access to her account on Jack’s server, so if payment is needed in advance, I can authorize it through the charity’s bank account.”
“Okay,” said Leigh, standing. “I’ll be right back. Have to use the lavatory.”
“Do you have access to Jack’s calendar, too?” Abby asked in astonishment once Leigh was out of earshot.
“I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I haven’t gone onto the server yet. It would be fun to see how many private client appointments he has and get a sense of his stamina.”
“But I’m one of his private clients,” Abby whispered, looking around at neighboring tables to make sure no one else was listening. “I didn’t know Adair had access to his computer files.”
“She might only has access to the charity-related files,” Elizabeth offered. “Given the different aspects of his business, he probably has separate passwords.”
“Let me know when you go on?” Abby insisted. “It makes me nervous. I’m going to ask him about it. Does he know you have access to these files, to his charity’s bank account?”
“I have no idea,” Elizabeth said. “Adair is in desperate need of help, so she gave me access. I also think she knows I’m not the type to do anything inappropriate with the funds or whatever else I can find.”
“Abby, what are you wearing to the benefit?” Leigh asked as she sat back down at the table. “Since moving here, you have officially become the best-dressed woman in town.”
“I’m not sure yet,” said Abby. “Maybe my long, billowy, black Trina Turk dress with a tribal-type necklace or a similar style of dress in gold. I’m not strictly abiding by the Indian theme.”
Leigh looked contemplative, borderline angry. The sisters exchanged a glance. “What are you going to wear, Leigh?” Abby asked.
“I have my personal shopper scouring Manhattan for a tasteful adaptation of the sari,” she sighed. “I haven’t liked anything she’s found yet. She’s sent me about fifteen photos of dresses. Maybe the problem isn’t her… Maybe it’s the Indian theme. That country’s clothing is so damn colorful and exuberant and littered with golden threads and jeweled beads. Between you and me, I think it’s absurdly lurid. If you’re not going with the theme, maybe I’ll drop it, too. Otherwise I’m going to have to have something made.”
After that comment, all the appreciation Elizabeth felt for Leigh helping with the benefit evaporated. How absurd! What is she paying her personal shopper to find the dress? Elizabeth wondered. And what will the final selection cost? There are definitely better ways to spend thousands of dollars.
“That sounds like a real dilemma for you, Leigh,” Abby responded. “Personally, I like traditional Indian clothing. It’s colorful and gauzy and sensual. I’m not rejecting it, just choosing to wear my own interpretation of it.”
“Good for you,” Leigh shot back. “I don’t.”
As the women continued to talk, Leigh cut her muffin into four and slathered butter on a piece. Elizabeth and Abby were facing the window. Seemingly out of nowhere, The Rolling Stone appeared and then went into reverse. Claudine was trying to parallel park her camper on Main Street in front of Brioche. She was aiming for a spot right in front of their table. The timing couldn’t have been worse—or perhaps better, depending on how you looked at it.
As Leigh shoved the entire quarter piece of muffin into her mouth, she looked around for the waitress with her latte—and saw The Rolling Stone out of the corner of her eye. Leigh snapped her head toward it, but being the pro that she was, her face only slightly registered something amiss. Leigh scooted her chair so that the window was just barely in her line of sight and, while chewing, started to rapidly add an excessive amount of butter to her second piece of muffin.
“Oh, look,” Abby said. “There’s Claudine Mead. She is so nice. Have both of you met her? She works at FIT.”
“You know her?” Leigh barked.
“Yes,” she said, and waved to Claudine, who was looking in the window. A giant smile took over Claudine’s face and she began to furiously wave at the women.
Leigh shifted her chair again, this time completely turning away from the window.
Claudine’s smile dropped. Abby gave her one last wave and turned back to Leigh.
“I met Claudine in town one day when she was looking for a trailer park,” Abby said. “I told her about the one near the Education Barn. You must know her, too. I saw her Winnebago parked in your driveway a while before I met her.”
Leigh looked incensed. “You told her about the trailer park?” she hissed. “You!?”
“Yes, me,” Abby said. “I am in the real estate business.”
After much frantic chewing dissolved the third hunk of muffin, Leigh finally said, “I do know her. In fact, she is my mother, and I will admit that to you if you promise not to tell anyone. Claudine, as you call her, showed up at my new home in that piece of crap she has been driving for years saying she wants a relationship with Richie and me and our kids. I think the timing is interesting given that I now have a home with enough space for her to live, too. Our Manhattan apartment was too small. I’m not interested in having a roommate or any kind of relationship with her.”
Abby looked back at the camper. Claudine was nowhere in sight.
“Is she gone?” Leigh asked.
“I don’t see her,” Abby said.
“I told her to go find somewhere else to park that white trash mobile and then maybe we could talk,” Leigh explained. “I didn’t expect her to find a trailer park. I thought she would go away. Thanks for giving her the tip. Now, I see her in that lumbering tin can all over town. I’ve had to switch the times I go to the gym around her work schedule and pray she isn’t telling people she meets there that we’re related.”
“Oh,” Abby said. “I don’t know her motivations, but I’ve had a few conversations with her and she seems to have her act together now. She teaches art to children. That’s kind of great.”
“Yes, she pulled herself together after I was all grown up,” Leigh said angrily. “Great timing, Mom.”
“Well, bad parents often make good grandparents,” Elizabeth offered. “Did you ever read The Prince of Tides?”
“I know, and I’d probably let her spend time with my kids if she wasn’t so damn embarrassing,” Leigh said in an exhausted tone. “She is so worn-looking. I don’t think she has ever had a facial. And her hair! At least a foot needs to be chopped off that brittle mane. I absolutely hate the way she whips it into a bun with a knitting needle. She drives that Winnebago with The Rolling Stone proudly painted on it in a rainbow of blue. Do you think I enjoyed living in that hunk of tin when I was in high school? The Winnebago allowed her to move us on a whim. She would lose a job or break up with a boyfriend and we’d be on the move again. Can you imagine what that was like? For me to have to start over in a new school again and again and again? And today, well, she is hands-down the most embarrassing person I know. How can I possibly be perceived as a high-end landscape designer with a mother like that? I’ve been mortified by her my entire life, and I have the right to decide the type and extent of relationship I have with her now.”
“I know the players in your industry well and many of the best ones come from humble backgrounds,” countered Elizabeth. “Most people—actually the ones you should want to work with—will judge you for your talent. They don’t care about your mother.”
“I think they do judge you by your background,” Leigh responded. “I don’t know a lot of people around here whose mothers are such opposites of them. It’s striking.”
“It means you had to struggle,” Elizabeth said. “Have you ever considered how that might be an admirable trait?”
“If I was a doctor or a teacher or a charity worker then maybe having a white-trash super-depressed mother when I was a kid would be okay,” said Leigh. “People could say ‘look at what she overcame.’ But I’m in the appearance business. I’m in the beauty and refinement business. I think that the people who are most trusted in those kinds of businesses didn’t grow up in a dump with, like, no property surrounding their home. They grew up surrounded by beauty on large, perfectly manicured plots of land. They tended to their land, created gardens as children, and learned from it. They were exposed to and toured great properties here and abroad. In essence, the trade is built into their DNA. My mother makes me look like a fake.”
“We all have baggage from our upbringings, Leigh,” Abby offered. “If you could just accept your mom for who she is and move on, you would be a lot happier.”
“Yes, let’s hear the psychobabble speech,” Leigh angrily responded. “‘Leigh, your real problem isn’t your mother, it’s you. It’s you feeling that you’re a fake, as fake as the plastic grass your mother rolled out in front of the camper. Maybe that’s why everything you do has to be perfect. Why everything you buy has to be the best.’ Blah blah blah…”
“Well, you did bring a $15,000 purse to morning coffee and then just dumped it on the ground as if it was worthless,” Abby pointed out.
“This purse cost $20,000,” Leigh corrected her as she picked the purse up and hurled it onto the vacant chair next to her.
“That’s even worse,” Abby said.
“So what, I carry a nice purse during the day!” Leigh said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s that you have to carry a purse like that or you would be mortified,” Abby said. “And your need to beat everyone else around you all the time.”
“I’m finding you really tiring right now,” said Leigh.
“Well then leave!” Abby said. “Your mom’s vehicle is right outside. Why don’t you go find her?”
“You can be a real bitch, Abby,” Leigh snapped. “What I need is for my mother to go away. To permanently disappear. I’m thinking of giving her money to go away. Short of destroying her trailer or buying her a home somewhere else, I don’t know what else to do.”
She sat for a minute, looking out at The Rolling Stone.
“Do you want the last piece of my muffin?” Leigh asked the sisters. “It really is too big.”
“No,” they said.