All Summer Long: A Novel Part 3

CHAPTER 2.

Back in New York

The rat problem had been handled quickly, efficiently, and to everyone's satisfaction.

"You'll never hear another one," Jason said.

"I can't deal with rats, Jason," Olivia said.

"My mom couldn't either," he said.

She wanted to run to Bergdorf's and buy neck creams for thousand-year-old women.

Olivia and Nick were back home in their Manhattan apartment packing the treasures they intended to take to South Carolina. Nick had strong feelings about severely editing their possessions. He wanted to get rid of all their antiques, except for his desk and his favorite pair of chairs. Any rug worth more than a thousand dollars was leaving. All of their paintings, with the exception of two small ones, were to be sold as well. Of the two they were keeping, one was an oil on canvas painted by William Glackens from his flowers-in-a-gla.s.s series, and the other was a smallish Guy Wiggins depicting American flags strung along Fifth Avenue on a snowy day. So their precious rock crystal and regency bronze lamps, their Georgian silver serving pieces and flatware, their Persian rugs, their finer ceramics, and all of their skeleton clocks were going to Sotheby's to be featured in a home sale with the remains of another estate. They were de-accessioning-according to Nick, that is.

Olivia had her own plan. She didn't want to part with a safety pin. She fought hard to keep her silver tea service and won that battle. What will my clients think if I don't have a tea service? Shall I serve tea or coffee in your lovely Channel 13 mugs? After the dust settled on that front, she pretended to go along with Nick's wishes because she had never seen him take such an authoritative stand on anything. But she had been quietly squirreling things away at her office and storage unit that she had no intention of selling-her fabrics, cloisonne boxes, the puzzle b.a.l.l.s, her favorite French clock, and her precious netsukes-all of which would never hear the auctioneer's gavel drop. In Nick's mind, he was practically Moses leading Olivia out of the desert of a soulless Manhattan to the Promised Land, where they needed next to nothing.

"We're moving to the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, Olivia. Right in the middle of hurricane territory. When a storm's coming, you can't start tearing up the house. What are you going to do? Roll up a huge rug and throw it over your shoulder? Or unhang paintings and throw all these ceramics in the trunk of the car? You just can't do that."

"I'm aware, but we don't have to get rid of everything. You can't expect me to just turn into a bohemian!"

"Why not? I think you'd make a lovely bohemian!"

"Nicholas!"

Smirking, he was teasing her and was a bit surprised that she put up such a fight. Why couldn't she simply accept his logic and go along with him? G.o.d, he loved that h.e.l.lcat streak of hers. It made his trousers twitch.

"When we get to the island I'm going to start wearing hats and flip-flops!" he said through another smirk, and eyes narrowed, continued: "Yes, and I need a good fis.h.i.+ng hat. Wasn't there an L.L.Bean catalog in today's mail?"

"Good Lord! Fis.h.i.+ng hats? People will talk about you!"

"I hope they do! Have you seen old Nick Seymour? He's as peculiar as the day is long!"

"Good grief!" she said nervously. "Anyway, I've given this whole weather issue a great deal of thought. It's serious, and this is where my pillowcase theory applies, you know."

"You have a pillowcase theory? G.o.d, you're so adorable. Okay, let's hear what a pillowcase theory is."

"Well, I will tell you, but if we are to live in such a dangerous place, before we do anything else, I think we have to take some basic precautions."

"Precautions? We're not moving to a third world country, you know," he said, chuckling.

"Please. I know that. But I think we need an SUV, Nick. I really do. I mean, if a bad storm is coming and we have to evacuate, we will need a vehicle with four-wheel drive. Agreed? Charleston can be a bit like Venice, you know."

"Yes, an SUV probably is a good idea. I mean, what with the waters of the Adriatic Sea drowning the pigeons in the Piazza San Marco and flooding Lockwood Boulevard simultaneously."

He snickered and she cut her eyes at him, another habit of hers that excited him. There was a flicker of an amber flame in her eyes. He would have sworn it on a stack of Bibles.

"Right. So, the first things we would need to grab if we have to evacuate are our important papers. Traum Safe is installing a small vault for us in two weeks. It's not the largest one they manufacture, but it's big enough to hold our papers, jewelry, and pa.s.sports and any cash we might have at home."

"Wait a minute. Darling, we don't have a safe here, so why do we need one there?"

"For peace of mind, Nicholas. Peace of mind. This safe is waterproof and fireproof, and it will be connected to the police department through our alarm system in case someone breaks in."

She was as dead serious as he was incredulous.

"Olivia? What are you thinking? Crime on Sullivans Island? Blasphemy! It's the safest place in the world. I've told you this over and over. I mean, the only reason we even have a police force is to handle the overserved and the occasional speed demon."

"Really? Well then, tell me this. Houses never burn down?"

"Well, yes, especially when careless people fry their own turkeys on Thanksgiving. Now the Sullivans Island fire department will do it for you. Did I tell you that? At no charge! Isn't that, I don't know, charming?"

"That's very nice, but, Nick, the house we bought is made of wood. Old wood. What if we go off to Asheville or someplace for the weekend and a bunch of kids decide to have a bonfire on the beach in front of our house. The wind changes direction and the fire travels across the dunes and ignites our house? Poof! Gone!"

"I see what you're saying, but that's why we pay insurance premiums," Nick said, and realized right then that Olivia was obviously suffering with some other anxieties he had failed to recognize. "And that's another reason why we don't want to have things at the beach that are irreplaceable."

"Speak for yourself!" She heard the volume of her voice rising, something she detested. Shrill women should be shot, she'd been heard to say often. She took a deep breath and spoke again. Calmly. "I just want to protect what we are taking, that's all. Anyway, if there's a storm coming with a name and a category attached to it, I think we ought to be able to place anything of value in a few pillowcases and run if we have to. That's the pillowcase theory." Maybe she had dreamed of such a storm. She wasn't quite sure then.

"I see. But run? Running from a hurricane at the last moment is highly unlikely. We'd have lots of notice. Tell me this. Does this irrational fear of yours have anything to do with living in a freestanding house instead of an apartment building?"

She was wrapping the black and white Staffords.h.i.+re dogs in Bubble Wrap.

"What do you mean by that? I'm going to miss my precious dogs."

She was caught completely off guard by the question, and what did he mean by irrational?

"Yes, but you don't need them. Well, you haven't lived in a freestanding house since you were ten years old."

"What do you mean? We've stayed with friends in houses all over the place."

"Yes, but they were there at the time. A big wide-open house without a boozy doorman and a handyman who doesn't speak English might make you feel vulnerable. Is that possible?"

"What?"

He watched as she considered his words and then as the irritation literally dissolved from her face. Finally she laughed and shook her head. "Nicholas Seymour! You've done it again."

"What did I do?" Peace was apparently restored, and he was uncertain how or why.

"You found the words that perfectly describe this awful dread I'm feeling. It's like I'm short of breath all the time."

Nick put down the small volume of poetry he was wrapping and went over to her. He took her in his arms and hugged her warmly, at last placing a kiss on her forehead.

"My dear Olivia, I love you so much. And if you feel better with a vault in the house, get a vault. In fact, get two vaults and two SUVs. I only want your happiness!"

"Oh, Nicky! You are such a darling."

"I don't know about all that. My point is, I just don't want to be owned by our possessions anymore. That's all. Living at the beach is supposed to be carefree! Although, I must say, your pillowcase theory is genius."

"You do realize that your newfound 'less is more' philosophy deeply conflicts with how I make my living? I can't go around like Gandhi in a loincloth with a bowl and stick, you know."

"I wouldn't mind seeing you in a loincloth." He wiggled his eyebrows at her and she suppressed a laugh.

"Nick, I'm serious! When I design a living s.p.a.ce, I accessorize it too. You know that. If a client visits me and there are no accessories to be seen, how would they think I have the wherewithal to provide them with the atmosphere they want?"

"You have a point. Keep two dogs."

Oh? She thought. Now he's going to kill off my dogs too?

"Olivia. Be honest. This apartment looks like d.i.c.kens's Old Curiosity Shop! We're drowning in bric-a-brac, knickknacks, and tchotchkes! We need to lighten our load, Olivia. We really do. We need a new equilibrium."

She looked around at the hundreds of stacked art books, Rigaud candles, needlepointed pillows, Meissen figurines, and Staffords.h.i.+re dogs of every size and coloration that were strewn about the room, perched on shelves and tucked into end tables, and she had to agree. It was too much.

"Okay," she said. "Okay."

He handed her a pack of Post-its and said, "Here. Put one of these on each of the things you can't live without. Then let's see what we've got."

"Good grief. This is exactly what I tell my clients to do!"

The building's internal house phone rang. They had a delivery or a visitor. Nick picked it up.

"h.e.l.lo," he said.

"Mr. Seymour, Ms. Maritza Vasile to see you and Ms. Ritchie. Sir. Um. Shall I send her up? Up? I said that, didn't I?"

Maritza Vasile the Chatterbox was Olivia's billionaire client with the huge yacht, and their doorman was fully baked at three in the afternoon. What was Nicholas going to say? He had no choice, so he mentally kissed his peaceful afternoon good-bye.

"Of course! Send her right up!" He hung up the house phone and grumbled.

"Who is it, sweetheart? The butcher? I ordered lamb chops from Lobel's for dinner." Like most true New Yorkers they had nearly everything in their lives delivered.

"Wonderful, but no, dear. It's Maritza. I'll be hiding in my study."

"You shouldn't be like that, you know. Where are my shoes?" Her eyes traveled all around the room. Olivia thought it was an unforgivable vulgarity to meet a client in her stocking feet.

"Excuse me, I am a tenth-generation South Carolinian and a bona fide gentleman who never thought it was possible for a woman to be too southern. Until I met Maritza. Until she appeared . . ."

"Oh, come on now," she said as she located one of her rogue slippers from behind an open box and the other from underneath the skirt of the sofa and slipped them on. "Gosh, this place is a mess! It's not her fault she's so . . ."

"No, I agree. I'm not a.s.signing blame," he said. "A Delta daughter married a Yankee challenge and then gave birth to another challenge, and the trials and chaos force her mind to retreat further and further into the most extreme parlance of the boondocks."

"True. You can take the girl out of Mississippi, but you can't . . . And don't forget she has to deal with Bob's ex-challenges too-that crazy ex-wife of his and that peculiar son. Wait, she has all the ex-wives to deal with!"

"True, and I shall pray in earnest for them all. Nonetheless, I'll be in my study. Brooding."

"Fine," she said. "I don't really blame you."

She hurried to the door to open it for Maritza and then hurried back to try to quickly establish order to her living room. That anyone would just drop in without calling ahead would normally provoke a heavy frost from Olivia, but being provoked with the blond bombsh.e.l.l that was Maritza was like getting mad at a puppy. There simply was no point. Puppies could not restrain themselves from wide-eyed, waggy-tail behavior. Maritza had the effervescence of a bounding litter of ten. If you corrected her manners, it would crush her soul. Worse, Maritza might find another decorator.

Olivia stacked some empty boxes and pushed a few others against the wall, ran her fingers through her hair, and spun around toward her foyer just in time to hear her elevator close and to hear Maritza call out, "h.e.l.looooo? Anybody home?"

"In here! In here! What a lovely surprise! How wonderful!"

All one hundred voluptuous pounds of Maritza Vasile seemed to be in perpetual motion as she tottered into Olivia's foyer on spike-heeled gladiator sandals and a bright Pucci print tunic worn over narrow-legged turquoise Capri pants. Her longish blond hair was layered and coaxed into bouncing ringlets and her oversize Gucci sungla.s.ses had a metallic trim that more or less tied into the jangling blaze of gold jewelry she was wearing.

"I was just shopping. I'm so sorry to barge in this way, but . . ."

"No! Please! I'm so happy you did!"

Air kisses ensued. Muah! Muah! As she leaned in, Olivia quickly decided Maritza had spent an inordinate amount of time sampling perfumes, probably in the lower level of Bergdorf Goodman. The evidence besides the mushroom cloud of fragrance was the small lavender shopping bag she pushed toward Olivia. In it was another Rigaud candle, exactly like the ones she was about to discard.

"Momma always said, 'Never go calling without a sursy!'" Maritza said, and smiled. "I know you love these."

"Oh! I do! Thank you! How sweet of you!" Olivia opened the box and sniffed, and the strong scent of jasmine immediately made her throat itch. "Delicious!" She lied. She despised jasmine. "Come in. Please, sit. Tell me what's happening."

"You tell me what's happening! All these boxes? You're really moving, aren't you?"

"Yes, we are really moving. But you know that this changes nothing between us."

"Oh, I know that. What other interior designer would I call? I just hate the idea of you not being right across the park, that's all."

"Well, we'll both have to learn to Skype!"

"Skype! Yes! I always forget about that!"

"Anyway," Olivia said in a conspiratorial whisper, "I have to give living in the South a try. Charleston just means the world to Nick."

"The things we do for love," Maritza said.

"Amen. And I'd do anything in the world for Nick."

"He's a precious heart."

"He sure is!" Except when he's counting my Staffords.h.i.+re dogs.

"I'd love to move back to Mississippi someday, but I can't see Bob chasing flies and skeeters off the screen porch with a swatter."