Chapter One | Chapter Two
“Marriage is an institution in which a man loses his bachelor’s degree and the woman gets her masters” -Anon
I remember the first time she said it. We were in a taxi hurtling down Park Avenue on a steamy August afternoon.
“Boyfriend,” my mother, Madeleine said, not in a mocking, judgmental tone of voice but matter-of-factly as though she could be referring to the weather or an item on a menu
“Phillip Robbins would make a very nice boyfriend, don’t you think?”
I was applying mascara at the time. The taxi lurched and the brush slipped from my eyelash onto my eyebrow, extending my brow line all the way over to my right ear.
“Boyfriend? I don’t quite picture Phillip Robbins as boyfriend material.”
“Oh, not for you darling,” my mother said, “for me.”
It was at that exact moment that I knew: my mother, Madeleine Krasner-Wolfe had crossed over to the dark side.
I come from a long line of family members all of whom are crazy each in their own way.
“Not crazy,” my mother said (who begged me to refer to her on a first name basis since I was three) “eccentric.”
“Why can’t I have a mother who’s normal?” I implored throughout my adolescence.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Samantha. Anyone can have a normal mother. Eccentricity is so much more appealing. Someday you’ll understand that.”
But I could never adjust to the fact that when my friends’ mothers were puttering about their kitchens, mine was lying on a table getting a bikini wax or sipping champagne in the middle of the afternoon.
On this particular Tuesday we were on our way to lunch, a pastime my mother considered an occasion, not because she loved to eat, but it allowed her to parade herself in front of the world in her latest fashion ensembles.
“It’s so festive dining in restaurants,” she said, “eating at home is absolutely dull.”
My mother took daily living to new heights and considered Auntie Mama her fictional role model. She watched the film over and over, often quoting Rosalind Russell’s famous line: “life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.”
The best part was that Madeleine could indulge her fancies because she was loaded. Her first husband, my father, Henry Krasner, whom she professed to be the love of her life, had croaked at forty-five on the sixteenth hole at the Rock Ridge Country Club leaving my mother with a gaping hole in her heart along with a small fortune that Henry had made in disposable diapers for adults along with an art collection worth millions.
As we were leaving the cemetery my mother told me through a barrage of tears sprinkling down the front of her black veil that she could finally live the life she was meant to lead.
“Your father was a wonderful man,” she said, “but frugal was his middle name. He wouldn’t part with a cent. Of course,” she mused, “in the end that was probably a wise move because now I won’t have to be a bag lady.”
Fortunately for her that was true. Madeleine was not one to have to make do. The only bags she paraded were designed by Gucci, Fendi and Louis Vinton. Cutting back was not something she could gracefully handle. And so, before my dad’s body was even cold, Madeleine went out and bought herself a sporty little Mercedes SLK 350 Roadster that she rationalized would help her through the grieving process.
Her accountant, Sheldon Glick assured my mother that she would be fine as long as she lived within reason.
“Within reason? What does that mean?” Madeleine put down her lace-edged monogrammed hankie and stopped crying long enough to inquire.
“You’re a rich woman,” Sheldon said, “But like most of us, unless we’re Rockefellers, you need to be sensible.”
Sensible to Madeleine was having enough dough to keep her in her East Side apartment with Gilda, our housekeeper of thirty years, the summer house in Westport and a monthly allowance that guaranteed she could continue living in the style to which she deserved to be accustomed.
“I’m not a woman who takes to change well,” she said.
“Continue living as you are for now,” Sheldon reached over his desk and took her hand. “We’ll revisit this subject in a few months.
“Yes,” my mother agreed. “After the ground settles, I’ll be able to think more clearly.”
Then she took herself over to Per Se for lunch and drowned her sorrows in a couple of dirty martinis.
That was the one thing about my mother: She had style.
But the relationship I shared with my dad was unique. He was the role model for every man who would eventually come my way. In turn, I was the love of his life. He openly made his affections known, not only by the gifts that he showered upon me, but with weekly dinners just the two of us. From the time I was six, Tuesdays became ‘our night.’ Although my mother often asked to tag along, dad appropriately refused her entry into our exclusive club. This was our time alone and no intruders, even my mother, were allowed to trespass on this ritualistic occasion.
Hundreds of such evenings punctuated my future. We began a tradition where these weekly jaunts allowed us to catch up on each other’s lives. Not once did I ever remember him canceling our standing appointment, and in that way Tuesdays belonged only to us and in that way, became cherished moments.
Then, when he was forty-five, it abruptly ended. Dad’s death brought with it a sense of longing I had not yet been able to relinquish – a yearning for something that would never be the same again. I had accumulated a wealth of knowledge from our talks. I was privy to personal insights and private thoughts he enjoyed sharing only with me, mainly because my reactions to whatever he told me were spontaneous and deliciously secretive.
There were times I even believed my mother was jealous although she brushed it aside by asking: “whatever do you two have to talk about?”
“Everything and nothing,” I responded, hoping that would placate her, but it never did.
These dinners, my dads and mine, provided a setting into which I could retreat in ways that my mother and I never could, thus becoming some of my happiest times. While my relationship with Madeleine was close, it was my father who left an indelible imprint on my psyche. Without judgment, he gently guided me through childhood, adolescence and young adulthood, and served as my one-man support system and guardian of my soul. My mother, colorful though she was, exhibited her parenting in more outspoken, symbiotic ways that often put tension between us. As I evolved more into my own, she clung to me with an intensity that often felt smothering.
After my father’s death, while my mother lapsed into grieving mode, I too mourned his death in a less conspicuous way. For a while, in the days that followed, I kept hearing him call my name which would stop me cold. After that, Tuesdays were never the same again.
Now, at thirty-eight, I lived alone on the opposite side of Central Park in a brownstone on West 85th Street. Alone that is until my first cousin, Celeste Bleckner, a sophomore at Sarah Lawrence, decided to invite herself to spend the month of July with me. My mother had a hand in making the arrangements.
“You know that little bitch and I never got along,”
“Darling, it’s the least you can do. Your Aunt Elaine is my only sister. When she asked, what could I say?”
“No!” I said emphatically. “The last thing I need is Celeste following me around all summer. I’ll have no privacy whatsoever. Why can’t she stay at school? Bronxville is only a half hour from the city.”
“Celeste wants to experience what city life is all about. It’s only for a month,” Madeleine held firm. “And you do have that extra bedroom.”
“You mean my office?”
“She can sleep on the pull-out couch. It will make her happy and it’s good for family relations.”
“It might have been nice to have had Celeste check with me first.”
“She was afraid you’d say no.”
“At least she’s perceptive,” I said.
“Sweetheart, do it for me,” Madeleine played on my guilt. “Celeste looks up to you. You’re her role model.”
“You’re the one with all the space, mother. Why can’t she stay with you? You have all those guest rooms just lying around with no one in them.”
The blood drained from my mother’s face. “Post-menopausal women don’t have roommates,” she said. “And anyway, she adores you. Maybe you can help her get over her shyness with boys. You know, teach her the ropes.”
But the only rope I was interested in was a noose to tie around Celeste’s chubby neck. Finally, after much prodding I acquiesced. Celeste moved in on the last day of June with her bunny slippers and five bottles of olive oil she used both as a moisturizer and hair conditioner.
Celeste had an edginess that couldn’t be ignored. The elder of two daughters of Elaine and Philip Bleckner from Tenafly, New Jersey, Celeste, at twenty was the less attractive of the two. Her eighteen year old, sister, Fern had no trouble attracting men, but she couldn’t care less. Fern was rumored to be a lesbian who was having an affair with a girl she had met at Smith during freshman year. The family tried keeping this hush-hush.
“Even more reason to be compassionate,” Madeleine said. “Poor Elaine is beside herself with grief that Fern might never give her grandchildren. At least with Celeste, there’s still a chance. That’s where you come in. Maybe you can find a suitable man for her.”
“The men I know are much older.”
“Well, they might have younger brothers. You never know. At any rate, a month with you might be the best thing for her.”
“And the worst for me,” I said.
“Celeste will be a dream roommate,” Madeleine added. “She’ll never cramp your style or borrow your clothes. Maybe she can even shed a few pounds.”
For years, my Aunt Elaine referred to her daughter as “pleasingly plump.” At 5’2” and 160-pounds she was downright fat. On the plus side: she wouldn’t be borrowing my clothes. The negative she never dated and would be hanging around my apartment every evening. Celeste considered a night at home with a hot novel and a pint of ice cream about as good as it got.
One of the reasons that Madeleine was so adamant about her moving in was that Celeste adored my mother, and with Madeleine, flattery went a long way.
“Aunt Madeleine is the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. The woman absolutely rocks. She’s more like a girlfriend than a mom.”
“That can sometimes pose a problem,” I said.
“I wish my mom were more like her. I mean at sixty-two, Madeleine is Fab-U-Lous.”
“I wouldn’t go spreading that around,” I said. “Madeleine doesn’t exactly advertise her age.”
“Her dirty little secret is safe with me,” Celeste said.
The year she turned sixty, Madeleine gave herself a birthday present of a face lift, tummy tuck and breast implants just so people like Celeste would continue to use words like ‘hot’ and ‘fab-U-lous’ to describe her.
“And those drop-dead clothes. I’d kill for the shoes alone,” Celeste said.
And so, on the 4th of July while fireworks exploded along the Hudson River, Celeste moved in for what was going to be a month of sheer hell.
When my mother stopped by a few days later to check up on things, she was sporting her latest pair of Manolo Blahniks and a little Donna Karan. I was so accustomed to her looks, I had stopped being mesmerized years ago. It was only when Celeste raised my consciousness I had to agree: for ‘a woman of a certain age’ Madeleine was sexy as hell.
I was not the only one who thought so. Grayson Wolfe, widower and one of the most prestigious art dealers in New York, agreed. They had met at an art opening. After only a few months of dating my mom he asked her to marry him.
That same month I was hired by Alexandra Cole, owner of the Cole Gallery on Madison Avenue. Alexandra entrusted me to handle all affairs when she was away in Europe on her frequent business trips, but was really screwing her head off with a Frenchman named Jean Luc. While Alexandra and Jean Luc fucked their way through Europe, I was still looking for my Mr. Right. In the meantime, my mother had found hers.
After Grayson proposed, Mom and I went to the Four Seasons where, in the Pool Room under a canopy of trees she told me she was considering accepting his offer. The five carat yellow diamond from Harry Winston clinched the deal.
“Granted he’s not your father,” she said, “but he’s got a lot going for him.”
What my mother meant was that Grayson had inherited his family’s wealth and wanted nothing more than to lavish it upon her. His two sons, grown and married, were themselves highly successful. Pierce, fifty, owned a thriving orthopedic practice and lived with his wife and two boys in Atlanta. Hillard, fifty-three, a recently divorced real estate attorney from Austin, Texas, specialized in clients with big bucks. Each had become millionaires by the time they were forty.
“Grayson even agreed to sell his apartment and move into mine,” my mother said. “You know how I detest moving.”
“The man is a relic. He’s as old as Methuselah.”
“He’s pushing seventy-five, but he’s very spry. Don’t let his age fool you. He’s a tiger in the bedroom.”
Grayson Wolfe might have been many things, but an animal between the sheets was hard to imagine.
“And…let’s not forget his seat on the Stock Exchange,” my mother boasted, “and his board position at the American Museum of Natural History and Memorial Sloan Kettering. Grayson is one of the most eligible bachelors in New York.”
“For the geriatric set, maybe.”
“Not to mention he has season tickets to the opera, first tier.”
“You detest opera, mother.”
“That may be true, darling, but I adore dressing up.”
That June, Madeleine and Grayson tied the knot at a small gathering at the Carlyle. She wore a virginal white Valentino and a Vera Wang veil adhered to her head by a clip of white orchids. Grayson took one look at his blushing bride and an erection appeared right though his Armani tuxedo pants, helped along by the Viagra he had popped minutes before saying “I do.”
For three years Madeleine and Grayson lived in marital bliss. Between my father’s money and Grayson’s fortune, my mother was having the time of her life running between the Westport house and Grayson’s home in Millbrook, New York where he kept two Polo ponies and his Lamborghini used only for recreational riding. In between, he and my mother sailed the Atlantic, flew to Paris twice, toured the Greek Islands and rented a villa in Tuscany for two months.
The night they returned home from Italy, Grayson complained of chest pains, blamed it on the airplane food and dropped dead three hours later on the new Suri rug for which Madeleine had spent a bundle. Two days later she gave the rug to Good Will and buried Grayson Wolfe under a cherry tree at Greenwillow Cemetery where the elite meet in the afterlife.
Madeleine Krasner Wolfe was a widow once again, only this time the word “filthy” preceded “rich.” Between Henry Krasner and Grayson Wolfe, the world was her oyster.
“Life moves in strange and unexpected ways,” Sheldon Glick told Madeleine when they were going over Grayson’s will. “You’re a woman of substance.”
Then he tacked another thousand on to her bill.
“I’m a woman alone… again,” Madeleine sobbed. To cheer herself up she went over to Tiffany and splurged on a little trinket.
As the weeks passed, my mother formed an abnormal attachment to me. She invited me to lunch daily.
On Tuesday morning, she called the gallery at ten.
“Mother, I’m a working woman, remember? Even though I’m assistant manager, I only take a forty-five minute lunch hour break.”
“That’s completely uncivilized, Samantha, not to mention, nutritionally unsound. I’ll pick you up in a taxi and we’ll grab a bite at Sarabeth’s”
“Not today, mom, I can’t. It’s crazy in the gallery. A new artist is coming in and I’m in charge.”
“What new artist?”
Madeleine switched gears, moving from the culinary to the creative.
“Blake Hamilton, the new rising star. He’s one of the exciting neo-expressionists. Very hot on the scene.”
Silence on the other end.
“Blake Hamilton? The British artist?”
“You know him?”
“Not personally, but I follow him. That article in the “Observer” sang his praises. I’ve been admiring his work for several years. Maybe I can pop in. What time is he arriving?”
“That’s totally intrusive, mother. And anyway, I’ll be busy interviewing him. You wouldn’t even get to see him.”
“I’ll just come to browse,” Madeleine said. “Another interested party looking to buy some art.”
“Don’t be absurd. Your gallery isn’t off limits. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to know he has a huge fan who’s considering buying one of his pieces.”
“His pieces start at thirty thousand.”
“As I said, I’m just browsing.”
And so it went until I told my mother to leave me alone and let me do my thing.
“Fine, fine, I get the hint, but I had another thought: maybe you, I and Blake can all do lunch together.”
“That’s it, mother,” I said. I slammed down the phone.
Not one to be rebuffed, at eleven-thirty Madeleine appeared at the gallery, dressed in her latest Barney’s acquisition: a beige pants suit and a straw hat with a brown grosgrain ribbon. I cringed when I saw her.
“For God’s sake, I told you not to come. I’m expecting Blake any minute.”
“I just want to sneak a peek,” she said. “I promise I’ll behave.”
Moments later, a vision of male pulchritude appeared, carrying a burgundy leather artist’s portfolio. He was dressed casually in gray pants and navy blazer. A striped blue and white shirt hung out just enough to make him look hot rather than disheveled. Around his neck was a red silk scarf. A pair of loafers with red socks completed the look. He was drop-dead gorgeous.
Madeleine pretending to survey the paintings turned around and smiled. Blake smiled back. Then, without batting an eye, she walked over to him.
“I do believe you’re Blake Hamilton,” she said.
“In the flesh, although I must admit the flesh is melting as we speak. It’s a scorcher out there.”
Each word was enunciated in a charming English accent.
“Yes, I practically fainted on my way over here. Manhattan in July is brutal.”
“Hello,” I jumped in, “I’m Samantha Krasner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And I’m Madeleine Krasner-Wolfe,” Madeleine said, “Samantha’s mother.”
Blake paused, looking my mother up and down. Next came the predicable response.
“Her Mother? That’s quite impossible. You just couldn’t be.”
My mother blushed.
“It’s lovely meeting you,” Madeleine said. “I often come in to peruse the latest work. My late husband, Grayson Wolfe was a major art dealer. We collect.”
“You were married to Grayson Wolfe?”
“Yes, you’ve heard of him?”
“Heard of him. The man was pure genius. I believe he was solely responsible for the success of my friend and artist, Ross Duval.”
Madeleine swooped in closer. “Yes, of course. We own a Duval. It’s hanging in the study. It’s one of my most favorite paintings.”
There was no stopping her now. My mother was charming the pants off Blake while he, in turn, was undressing her with his eyes. It was a meeting made in hell.
“I hate to interrupt,” I said, “but I need to speak with you, Blake. Mother, if you’ll excuse us,” I shot her a look, “we need to get down to business.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t pick this conversation up later,” Blake said, holding his gaze on Madeleine “I’d love to take you for drink, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“And I would love for you to do that,” Madeleine flirted back. “And please, call me Madeleine.”
“Let’s say five o’clock at The Mark…Madeleine. Is that good for you?”
“Better than good,” she said.
Blake turned back at me as though he had misplaced something and came back to find it.
“Oh, and Samantha, I expect you’ll be joining us too.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I won’t be leaving the gallery until late tonight. But, thanks anyway.”
Far back as I could remember, I lived in my mother’s shadow, and though a high-styled and well-coiffed shadow it was, I never felt I owned my life. Finally, after two years of therapy and a good as second tier partner at the Cole gallery, did I even start to emerge.
Second tier, according to Alexandra Cole, was a prerequisite to associate partner. She promised me that come the end of the year, we would “evaluate the situation.”
Much in the same way, my mother, Madeleine was the CEO in charge of my life – a position I was no longer willing to accept. Add to that equation the fact that she thought nothing of insinuating herself socially as was evidenced much to my chagrin, when she accepted the invitation for drinks with Blake Hamilton.
“I’m doing it for you, darling,” she whispered on her way out. “I’ll get the scoop on Blake and let you know if he’s as good as he looks.”
“I’m quite capable of interviewing my own men,” I snapped back.
“Can’t you just let me play my motherly role?”
“You’re being intrusive, mother.”
“It’s just drinks, for God sake,” she said.
At five o’clock, Blake was tucked away at a small table in the plush Marks’s Bar when Madeleine arrived. He stood up and offered her a seat next to him.
“This calls for champagne,” he said. “Your lovely daughter took eight of my paintings. I consider it a real coup to be showing at the Cole Gallery.”
“The Cole should be fortunate to have you,” Madeleine countered. “You are after all one of the hottest ‘artistes’ in London.”
“I’ve been lucky.”
“Believe me, it takes more than luck,” Madeleine helped herself to some nuts from the silver bowl. “You’re young and talented. Exactly how old are you?” she broke in.
“I’ll be turning forty in August.”
“Oh, the same month as Samantha. You’re practically twins. She’ll be thirty-nine on August 24th. If my husband, Grayson were alive,” she lowered her eyes in a moment of reverie, “he would have snatched you up. Grayson had an eye for the authentic. Today, it’s all about glitz over substance and who you know. Your work is won-der-ful-ly expressive.”
“I’ve always had a love of art. Since I was a kid I’ve been splashing paint on canvas. Who knew it would amount to anything except some colorful blotches?”
“Obviously someone knew,” Madeleine said. “That piece in Art in America wasn’t exactly chopped liver. I’ve been following you for a couple of years.”
“You read the magazines and reviews?”
“Never miss them,” Madeleine lied. “Grayson of course subscribed to every one. The art world was our life….that is until he passed on only four months ago.”
“If I may be so bold,” Blake inched in closer, “you’re a very young-looking widow. I’m so sorry for your loss. Your husband was well respected in the industry.”
“Twice widowed,” Madeleine corrected. She removed her favorite prop: the monogrammed hankie from her Nancy Gonzalez bag and dabbed the corner of her eyes, wiping away a non-existent tear.
“It has been difficult. If it weren’t for my friends and my lovely daughter, I couldn’t carry on.”
Madeleine, not one for understatement, piled it on while she and Blake sipped champagne, forming an admiration society of two until two hours later, she looked at her watch.
“Oh-my-God, is it seven o’clock already?”
“I never noticed,” Blake said. “Do you have dinner plans?”
“Some leftover cold poached salmon that my housekeeper made”
“Well, that just won’t do. Would you consider being my guest for dinner this evening?”
Madeleine perked up. “I’d be simply delighted.”
“Perhaps, Samantha could join us after she leaves the Gallery.”
“Samantha has other plans,” she said, without missing a beat, maybe some other time.”
“I’ll look forward to that. In the meantime, do you have a favorite restaurant in mind?”
“I’ll leave it to you,” Madeleine said, adding, “but, I never say no to sushi. Let me call Asiate. My husband and I dined there regularly. Chef Noriyuki Sugie adored Grayson. I think we can get in.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Blake said.
Indeed, Grayson’s reputation had preceded him. The finest restaurants in Manhattan had welcomed him with open arms. One mention of his name and at eight o’clock we were at the Mandarin Oriental hotel and seated at a table at Asiate by eight forty-five. A view of Central Park added to the ambiance.
“Have you ever dined here before?” Madeleine asked.
“Too rich for my blood,” Blake said, laughing, but tonight’s different. As I said, I’m celebrating my entry to the Cole Gallery.”
“My treat. After all, it was my suggestion to come here.”
“I won’t hear of it,” Blake said. “I’m a hot ‘artiste’ remember? What else would I be doing tonight except attending those boring parties. You saved me and now I’m indebted to you.”
“Only two of them tonight, thank God. Last night, four. I’m being wooed by two gallery owners.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“My first choice was the Cole Gallery. It has more clout than all of the others put together.”
Every time Blake opened his mouth, Madeleine practically swooned. His English accent only added to his already handsome face and boyish charm. Perfect for Samantha, she thought, but too young for her, tempting though it was. Yet tonight, Madeleine was having too much fun to worry about small incidentals like robbing the cradle.
Back at home, I imagined my mother sitting over drinks and trying to impress Blake. Since Grayson died, she was acting more peculiar than usual, but zeroing in on my latest hot artist was pushing things a bit too far. She was playing her role as the merry widow to the hilt, but when it started to infringe on my territory, some rules needed to be established.
Madeleine of course never considered her behavior inappropriate in any situation. She even went so far as to think that I would be happy she was getting out and having some fun…even if it was with a man who was by all rights more in my league than hers. Then again, there was no stopping Madeleine Krasner-Wolfe. When she wanted something, she went after it without any thought to protocol or propriety.
In the middle of her grilled Ahi tuna with Thai basil pesto and Blake’s lobster sukiyaki with black mussels and clams, Blake suddenly suggested. “After we leave here let’s go down to Chelsea. But, there’s no reason you can’t accompany me to one of those ‘anyone-who’s-anyone-will-be-there’ parties.”
“Really? They wouldn’t mind?”
“Nobody cares. The loft will be teaming with people. I should make an appearance just to keep my foot in the door. Sometimes reviewers show up. It’s a real scene as you know. I’m sure you and Grayson attended many of them. I go just to stay in the groove – very PC.”
“Yes,” Madeleine said, “but never with the artist-of-the-moment on my arm.”
“Then, you’ll say yes?”
Madeleine picked up her sake while Blake picked up the check. “Here’s to life’s most enchanting moments,” she said.
“Bachelors, like detergents, work fast and leave no rings” -Rich Bossmund
Madeleine had been to her share of art openings and after-parties, but always with Grayson and never with a handsome, young star of the moment who drenched her with compliments and made her feel half her age. She was lapping up every moment as she and Blake taxied down to Chelsea.
The loft on 10th Avenue belonging to Sonia and Stanley Eberhardt was, as Blake predicted, buzzing with artsy types in outfits that defied imagination. Some familiar faces punctuated the scene including the poet, Marsh Hopps and his companion, Gordon Starr, whose handbags were legendary and sold in all major department stores from the east to west coasts. Artists of repute paraded about or hovered around the chrome and glass table, dipping into the baked brie and pouring wine into plastic glasses. Stanley Eberhardt who had acquired his wealth buying art, and whom Grayson had considered a first-class phony, welcomed us in with open arms. Sonia, standing by his side, gushed.
“I didn’t know you knew our Blake?” she said, slurring her words ever so slightly.
“We just met today,” Blake jumped in. “I’m showing at her daughter’s gallery.”
“Well, not exactly my daughter’s gallery,” I said.
“Samantha is in charge of putting artists like me on the map.”
“Nonsense,” Stanley said. “You’ve already gained a reputation in London. I understand that you’ve caused quite a stir among the Brits.”
“How wonderful for us that you’ve decided to grace New York with your work. Next stop, the Guggenheim,” Sonia chirped, not missing an opportunity to reach over and touch Blake.
A blonde beauty who looked liked she survived solely on lettuce leaves, suddenly appeared wearing lime lipstick and a long black jersey over black tights.
“Tell me I’m not seeing things,” the blonde stared at Blake. “Is this who I think it is or are my eyes deceiving me?”
“Darling,” Sonia took her arm. “I’d like you to meet our dear, dear friend, Blake Hamilton. Blake, this is Geneva Moss, an artist in her own right.”
“In her own right” meant that Geneva once had a piece in the Grey Art Gallery at New York University. It hung there for a month and was considered an atrocity by those in the know.
“Very nice to meet you,” Blake extended his hand, “and this is Madeleine Krasner-Wolfe.”
“Hi,” Geneva said, instantly turning away from Madeleine and back to Blake. I absolutely worship your work. You’re amazing.”
Gloria Reed, owner of the Casey Campbell Gallery came running over from the other side of the room when she saw Blake.
“You rat,” she kissed him on either cheek, “I heard you’re not going to be gracing us with your canvases.”
“Word travels fast,” Blake said. “That’s correct. I was lured in to the Cole by Samantha Wolfe, daughter of Madeleine Krasner-Wolfe right here, whom I’d like you to meet.”
“We’ve met before,” Gloria said. “I knew your late husband. May I offer my deepest condolences on his recent passing?”
“Thank you.” Madeleine said, stuffing a chuck of Gouda in her mouth.
For the next half hour they milled about, shaking hands with the rich and famous and those aspiring to become the rich and famous, until Blake leaned over and whispered:
“Have you had enough because I certainly have? Let’s blow this joint.”
“I never thought you’d ask,” Madeleine said.
“I’m staying at the Elysee on 54th. What do you say we have a nightcap at the Monkey Bar before ending the evening?”
Madeleine’s excitement couldn’t be contained. She hadn’t been so taken with anyone in years. Since Grayson’s death her sense of boredom was palpable until today when Blake Hamilton stepped in and she knew this was the perfect man for Samantha.
“My dear,” Madeleine said. “I would love having a nightcap with you, but I’m curious: with all these beauties on your tail, surely you can have your pick of the socialite litter. Why me?”
Blake took her hand and looked deeply into her eyes, “because Madeleine Krasner-Wolfe, you’re far sexier and more fun than any one of these bimbo-chicks. And, in case you didn’t know, I’m absolutely ga-ga over older women.”
“Old enough to be your mother, I might add, but perfect for my daughter.”
“Why can’t I date you both?” Blake winked with no sense of impropriety.
“Oh Blake, you’re such a devil,” Madeleine said.
“Mother,” Samantha’s voice echoed into Madeleine’s cell phone five minutes later,” where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours?”
“Can’t talk, darling. I’m with Blake. We’re on our way to the Monkey Bar.
“You’re not serious?”
“You bet I am, and might I add, I haven’t had this much fun in years.”
Blake, seated on her right, and ever the perfect gentleman, gestured.
“Have Samantha meet us if she’d like.”
Madeleine covered the phone with her hand. “Not on your life,” she whispered to Blake. “Samantha, I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Mother, don’t hang up. This is ridiculous. The man is young enough to be your son.”
“We already covered that. Look, I’ve really got to go. What is it you wanted anyway?”
“I wanted to know what you were up to. How drinks went.”
“Beyond your wildest imagination.”
“You sound guilty.”
“Guilty? Hell, I’m as guilty as sin and loving every minute.”
“Tell Samantha she has a most charming mother,” Blake broke in.
“I heard that. Are you sober, mother?”
“I’m flying high, and you’re starting to break up.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” I said.
“Tomorrow sweetheart, we’ll meet for lunch and I’ll fill you in on everything.”
“I’m working tomorrow.”
“Then, I guess you’ll never know.”
“All right,” I conceded. “I’ll meet you at 1:00 at Jackson Hole.
“Jackson Hole is for the Dalton mothers. Let’s have a real lunch. I’m feeling festive. Meet me at Caffe Grazie on 84th. Their crab cake salad is divine.”
“I think you should go back and see Dr. Milman,” I said.
“I don’t need a shrink. I have all the therapy I want right here.”
After two B&Bs on the rocks apiece, Madeleine said goodnight to Blake and thanked him for a lovely evening.
“Id ask you up to my room,” he said, “but you’re already in enough hot water with your daughter.”
“Samantha is just jealous. She’s been looking for Mr. Right since she graduated from Bennington. And here I am out on the town with a most eligible bachelor who by all rights she should be dating.”
“You’d like me to date Samantha?”
“Would you like to?”
“Samantha seems like a lovely girl…just like her mother,” he wouldn’t let up. “And beautiful, too.”
“I’m sure she’s love spending time with you…unprofessional time I mean.”
“Well, I was planning to drop by the gallery tomorrow. Samantha and I need to go over some paperwork.”
“There, you see, simple enough.”
“Do you think she’d agree to have dinner with me?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“Madeleine Krasner-Wolfe, you’re absolutely irrepressible. Does Samantha know how lucky she is to have a mother like you?”
“Absolutely. Now, I’ve really got to go. It’s almost two a.m.”
“I suppose a good night kiss is out of the question?”
“As I said, you’re a devil, Blake.”
“I don’t see it quite that way. What’s one harmless, little kiss?’
“Save it for Samantha,” Madeleine said, moving away from Blake just as was about to plant one on her lips.”
I tried brushing my mother’s behavior off as bereavement therapy, but was furious that she had trespassed where no mother should dare to go. We needed to talk, which was why I agreed to drop everything and meet her. I was at Caffé Grazie at exactly one o’clock. Madeleine was already waiting and sipping a glass of white wine.
“You are one piece of work, mother.”
“You look upset. Here, have a sip of my wine.” Madeleine offered her glass.
“I don’t want a drink. I want to talk.”
“About what?” Madeleine assumed an innocent stance.
“Are you kidding me or what? I just left Blake Hamilton.”
“And, after we got through with business and planning his show in December, he asked me out.”
“How could a guy who spent an entire evening sucking up to my mother have the gall to ask out her daughter?”
“It was hardly like that. He’s completely harmless. We talked about you all night. I am your best spokeswoman, after all.”
“You’re not running a dating service, mother.”
“I saw the way he looked at you when you came to the gallery, which, by the way, I asked you not to do. He was practically salivating.”
“Stop being so dramatic. He’s an artist, for God’s sake. Artists are free-spirits and Blake is no exception. So, you were saying, he asked you out.”
“He’s in town until Monday night. He wants us to have dinner tonight,” I said.
“I hope you accepted.”
“Of course I accepted. He’s the best thing to come along in months.”
“That’s what I told him,” Madeleine said.
“Okay, give me a sip of your wine…in fact, I’m going to order my very own glass.”
“Good, a little wine in the middle of the day is very beneficial to the complexion.
The waiter appeared. Samantha ordered a Pinot Gregio.
“I just want to know one thing, mother.”
“Anything, baby. I have no secrets.”
“Tell me that nothing happened between the two of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, don’t be so crude. You don’t think I would sleep with a man young enough to be my son, do you?”
“There, you admitted it. He is too young for you.”
“Of course he’s too young. But, he’s perfect for you.”
“I do like him.”
“What’s not to like?”
“Where are you going for dinner?”
“He told me to choose a place with atmosphere, something on the water, if possible. I made a reservation at the Water Club. I thought he’d like that.”
“A little commercial but romantic in a touristy kind of way.”
“Don’t you think he’s adorable, mom?” The wine had softened me.
“Not only that: I think he’s smart and surprisingly unassuming. He’s not full of himself like so many of those art hotties are. I had a most lovely time last evening. We went to Asiate.”
“So I heard.”
“Then, he whisked me off to the Eberhardt’s loft.”
Grayson hated the Eberhardt’s. What did they say when they saw you with Blake?
“Stanley Eberhardt’s eyes practically bugged out her head and Sonia was too drunk to care.
The menu was presented. Madeleine zeroed in on the crab cakes while I settled on the goat cheese omelet.
“Sweetheart, an omelet? How boring. Why don’t you have some fish or perhaps, the crab. Be adventurous.”
“That seems to be your job, mother,” I said.
By the end of the meal, topped off with a plate of biscotti and some fresh berries, we put the subject to rest and resumed our respective roles of mother and daughter, chatting away on what I should wear to dinner.
“I was thinking maybe my floral Chloe’ and my red Jil Sander shoes.
“Don’t forget the makeup,” Madeleine said. “You look as pale as a cadaver.”
“Blake seems to like the way I look,” I said.
“All I’m saying is that a little blush wouldn’t hurt.”
“Maybe you’d like to come along and supervise, mother?
And while Madeleine would like nothing better than to see Blake again, I knew when to keep quiet. Wouldn’t it be too funny she mused silently, if Blake Hamilton ended up being her son-in-law? Grayson Wolfe, art dealer to the stars, would be spinning in his grave.