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Renée was confused. “If it’s a good building, why can’t we consider it?”
“Sorry, let me explain…A ‘good’ building is realtor code for the few buildings left in Manhattan with co-op boards that will never allow people of a certain, ahem, background in.”
Renée’s jaw tightened. “What do you mean by ‘background’? I have an MBA from Harvard and letters of reference from the governor of New York, Cardinal O’Connor, and Barbara Walters. Are you telling me we aren’t qualified?”
“It has nothing to do with your qualifications or references, Mrs. Pike, which I can assure you are sterling.”
“Then what is the problem?”
Danielle lowered her voice to a whisper. “No Jews, Mrs. Pike. And that means no one with a drop of Hispanic blood either. You need to have come over on the Mayflower to get into this building.”
Now, Renée scrutinized herself one last time in the inlaid mirror of the elevator. With her expertly balayaged hair and her expensively sculpted nose, did she still look like she had any Hispanic blood coursing through her veins?
“I can’t wait to see this place,” Cecil whispered in his mother’s ear. “How much do you want to bet it’s decorated like Frank E. Campbell’s?”
The elevator opened onto an entrance hall, and both Renée and Cecil were taken aback by the sight of the enormous pair of Assyrian sphinxes that were at least ten feet tall flanking a faux marbré set of doors in vibrant malachite and turquoise. They could hear the murmur of the crowd just beyond the doors. This wasn’t the typical Sister Parish meets Mark Hampton decor they had been expecting; the place had a sumptuous, exotic flair that exuded a relaxed grandeur.
“Can you believe it? Old money with actual style,” Cecil whispered to his mother.
Renée scanned the room quickly, quietly impressed, as Cecil wondered if he had time to sneak a few pictures. “Stand there, Mother. I’m going to take a picture of you before anyone sees us.”
Cecil took a few covert shots on his phone before clearing his throat and asking in a loud voice, “Now, where’s everyone?”
“There they are!” Lucie said, the relief evident in her voice as she caught sight of Cecil poking his head into the drawing room. She steered Cecil and his mother to the corner where her grandmother was perched on the edge of a deep-buttoned ottoman, chatting animatedly with her friends Jeannette and Alex. “Granny, here are Cecil and his mother, Renée Pike,” Lucie proudly announced.
Lucie’s grandmother stood up quickly, her posture still ramrod straight after more than eight decades. “Howdoyoudo?” Good, good, Cecil is taller than I would have thought. And the mama’s wearing Oscar from one of his last couture collections for Balmain. I almost bought that suit. She’s much prettier in person than her pictures. No wonder she hooked her pike.
Renée flashed her signature million-watt smile and said in her unabashed Texan drawl, “Mrs. Churchil
l, it’s such a pleasure, at long last! I’ve been wanting to thank you in person for over fifteen years now, for rescuing the Württemberg tapestries and giving them to the Cloisters.” Grandma looks like Vanessa Redgrave! And she’s wearing an Yves Saint Laurent dress with…holy moly…are those Tina Chow rock crystal cuff bracelets? Not what I was expecting—this is one cool dame.
“You are much too well informed, Renée. That was supposed to be a secret,” Consuelo said, a bit taken aback. I’m going to get everyone fired at the Met tomorrow.
Cecil bowed ceremoniously. “Mrs. Churchill, I can finally see where Lucie gets her artistic flair. Just. Look. At. This. Room! I’m dying for these moss-green stamped velvet walls! And those Giacometti end tables! May I ask if Geoffrey Bennison was somehow involved in this mise-en-scène?”
“Stéphane* did the original work for me, but, yes, Geoffrey gave it a bit of a refresh in the late seventies,” Consuelo replied, eyeing him curiously.
“He really did a marvelous job—it holds up beautifully. Tell me, that portrait of you over the fireplace, is that by Magritte?” Cecil asked in amazement, staring at the painting of Consuelo’s face half obscured by clouds.
“Indeed it is. It was the last portrait he did, so I’m told,” Consuelo said in the blasé tone of someone who’d uttered that statement a thousand times. Despite this, Cecil was genuinely awed. He couldn’t quite believe he was engaged to the granddaughter of a woman so fabulous.
He was about to ask Consuelo if she wouldn’t mind posing with her Magritte portrait and him for an Instagram shot when a portly man with a bushy silver mustache cut in front of him and gave Consuelo a hug.
“Ah, Harry! Come meet Lucie’s beau, Cecil Pike. Cecil, this is Harry Stuyvesant Fish, a dear family friend. He’s about to become our ambassador to Norway.”
“Congratulations, young man! I knew your grandfather!” the illustrious ambassador-to-be (Rippowam / Groton / Harvard) said to Cecil as he pumped his hand jovially.
“Really? On which side?” Cecil asked in astonishment.
“The Pike side, of course. My family had a camp up in the Adirondacks too, on Upper Saranac.”
“I’m sorry, my grandfather to my knowledge was never in the Adirondacks.”
“He wasn’t? Aren’t you Cecil Pike IV?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Where did your family summer?”
