Skinnydipping (38 page)

I was dead tired, but I knew I needed some kind of nourishment, so I went into the kitchen and cooked myself some scrambled eggs. “That smells great,” said Mikki. “Will you make me some?” It was the first time I’d ever seen her eat anything.

“Don’t make me any!” said Shari. “I’m just going to enjoy the smell. I can’t spare another calorie today.” She grabbed a bottle of club soda from the refrigerator. “So it was interesting to have Harry Jansen involved today, don’t you all think?” she addressed the room generally, and carefully did not look at me, but I could tell she suspected something.

“I heard he really was engaged,” said Monica. “I read it in a gossip magazine. This Christine person is a supermodel, and they were photographed together at a club.”

Knife to my heart! A supermodel? I sighed. I wasn’t really holding out any hope about Harris. But it still bothered me a little. A
supermodel. Fantastic. I ate the eggs slowly, chewing carefully, and thinking, thinking. I couldn’t turn off my brain.
Let it go, Faith
, I told myself.
Let him go. He’s not the one for you.

I had to seduce Sybil, not her son, and today had given me a little hope. If I could just keep going, if I could keep from getting distracted, making any mistakes, falling asleep on my feet, fainting from starvation, or additionally offending Sybil, then maybe, just maybe, I could come out on top.

chapter twenty-six

A
s the limousine pulled into the long, tree-lined driveway that led up to Sybil Hunter’s waterfront estate in Larchmont, Shari, Mikki, Christophe, Monica, and I—the winning team—stared out the window at the gardens and orchards and the acres of lawn, gorgeous in summer, even though we were pretending it was Thanksgiving. I couldn’t believe I was going to her house! And then I saw it: a four-story storm-gray Victorian with white gingerbread trim.

It was even more incredible on the inside: gleaming oak floors, ivory-painted crown moldings, big windows, a marble fireplace, chandeliers everywhere, along with more rustic elements—a willow chair, natural wood beams, big vases of cut flowers and tropical trees in pots, sun pouring into the windows.

“Why does she have animal heads on the walls?” whispered Shari.

“It’s weird!” Monica whispered. “I feel like that moose head is
looking
at me!”

Rasputin, Sybil’s Newfie, trotted into the entryway to meet us, his big fluffy tail wagging agreeably. Then Polly came down the stairs. “Welcome,” she said. “Sybil would like you to put your things on this table, and then I’ll give you a tour. I’m sure you want to see the house.” Everyone nodded eagerly.

“Come this way,” Polly said. “Now, we’ll start in the great room. As you can see, Sybil collects taxidermy.”

“So fascinating!” said Shari. “What an idea!” She cast me a look. The more Shari relaxed, the more she criticized Sybil behind her back, telling everyone how Sybil’s style was too WASP-y, how everybody really knew that Sybil was born a Jew but pretended not to be, and how this dilution of her natural heritage had leached out all her character. Of course, in front of Sybil, Shari was as ingratiating and tractable as a well-trained Labrador retriever.

Polly took us from room to room, each more beautiful and fabulous than the next, and finally made it to Sybil’s country kitchen. I felt like I had already been there from reading all her cookbooks, but it was still a highlight of my life to actually be in it.

It was a dream kitchen to beat all dream kitchens. Floor-to-ceiling cabinets set with antique glass, infinite marble countertops, a huge butcher-block island, and the biggest pot rack I’d ever seen, hung with stainless-steel and copper pots and pans and bakeware of every shape and size and era, from sleek and modern pieces to rare antiques that probably came from Europe. One counter was devoted to a massive Italian espresso maker, and the cabinet above was stocked with every possible cup and plate related to serving coffee or tea. Another area was set up just for baking, with double ovens under a massive cast-iron gas stove. The refrigerator was actually a restaurant-style walk-in. There was enough room in there for an entire side of beef.

“This is incredible,” Mikki said, peering over my shoulder. “Is anybody ever even here to use this kitchen?”

“Wow.” It was all I could say.

“Does she have a wine cellar?” Monica asked hopefully.

“Yes, but we won’t be going down there today,” Polly said.

“Does she have a butler?” Mikki asked.

“No,” Polly said. “But she does have a gardening staff, two housekeepers, and a chef.”

I was dying with envy, and with respect for what Sybil Hunter had amassed. So she had a bitchy side. After seeing her house, I felt more
inclined to excuse it. If it were my house and my money, I probably would have had a lot less stuff. The antiques, supplies, furniture were overwhelming. I would have been more minimalist. Still, I was overwhelmed with what she had accomplished. You had to be aggressive to get the kind of success that could buy resources like this, unless you were born into them. Sybil was self-made. I understood why so many women wanted to be her. It was the domestic dream. The woman had an entire room devoted to wrapping gifts!

But at the same time, all the provincialities of domesticity were absent. Sybil was no old-fashioned, subservient, doting housewife at the mercy of her husband’s money and power. She wasn’t making martinis for her man at the end of the day. She was making them for herself. She was the homemaker, not the house
wife.
There was no room for
wife
in her life. She embraced domesticity on her own terms. She was an independent, wealthy, powerful businesswoman marketing the
My Three Sons
concept, the
Donna Reed
lifestyle, even though she was anything
but
Donna Reed. I admired it—worshipped it, even. I also wondered if it was lonely.

“I think they’re done shooting the table,” Polly said, after answering her cell phone. “We can go back into the dining room now.”

“I didn’t realize we were being kept out of the way,” Shari said, offended that they hadn’t asked her to consult on the photo shoot.

“It’s time for cocktails,” Polly said. “Just as a reminder, please keep in mind that you are in Sybil Hunter’s
home.
” She said it like she would tell us we were in the Vatican. Shari raised her eyebrows at me.

“What does that mean?” I said.

“It just means that it’s important to behave with a certain … decorum,” she said, glancing at Monica.

Suddenly I got nervous. Harris would be in there. I was about to see him. And the mysterious Christine—fiancée, supermodel, whatever she was.

I was irritated at myself for feeling so obsessed. Harris was just another guy in just another club. I could meet another guy like him in a minute. So what if he was engaged, in quotation marks or not in
quotation marks? Who cares? Not me, I told myself, striding boldly into the dining room.

Our table really did look beautiful. It was the first thing I noticed. Then I saw Sybil, Alice, Harris, and a pale, thin, pretty young woman with long blonde curls. Across the room was an older woman who had to be Judith, Sybil’s mother, laughing at something Ian was saying. The rest of them were standing around the table, drinking champagne from crystal champagne flutes and talking in low voices. As we entered, Sybil turned to us. “Here they are,” she said. “Everyone, let’s welcome the winning team!”

Alice and Ian put down their glasses to clap for us. Judith, who could have been an aged copy of Sybil herself, but with short-cropped white hair and large round eyeglasses with dark red frames, surveyed us critically. “Help yourselves to a well-deserved glass of champagne,” Sybil said, almost warmly. As we moved past the table to the champagne fountain, I noticed Sybil had made some alterations to our design.

Shari noticed, too, and since she’d taken credit for the whole thing, she took the edits as a personal affront. “She changed the flower arrangement,” she said. “And those roses aren’t as nice as ours. Who supplies her roses? My husband needs to supply her roses.”

“She grows her own roses, Shari,” I whispered back.

“Oh, right.” Clearly, Shari didn’t approve.

Monica and Shari picked at the appetizers, but I wasn’t hungry at all. I was too nervous. I looked back to where Harris was standing, looking uncomfortable, while the pretty pale girl chattered to him. She appeared luminescent in the dim light of the dining room, her long curls like a mermaid’s. She had a strange, otherworldly beauty. I, on the other hand, looked like I’d been hit by a train. Gray hairs were growing in, and I had black circles under my eyes that made them look like empty sockets. She looked fresh as a daisy. She was also wearing an incredibly short skirt—even shorter than the girl in the club that Harris had left with. He must like short skirts. I looked down at my own modest-for-the-show hemline. Then I noticed Sybil
watching the two of them fondly. But Harris seemed uninterested. Maybe even unhappy. And then he looked at me.

Our eyes locked again—I wished he would stop doing that to me! It felt like an electric shock. Then his whole face softened. He smiled just slightly, almost apologetically. I smiled back. I didn’t know what it meant—were we agreeing that he was unavailable? Was he saying he was sorry for all the misunderstandings? Was he telling me that no, she was not the one for him—that maybe he was trying to untangle himself from something, and he wanted me to understand?

“Shall we sit down?” Sybil said suddenly. I wondered if she’d seen me making eyes at her son. I looked down at the place cards. They weren’t the same ones Monica had drawn, but they were written in silver on card stock, tucked into Christophe’s white-painted pinecones. I was seated between Shari and Christophe, as far from Harris as possible. Had he told his mother about me? Now I was paranoid.

Sybil raised her glass. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us this Thanksgiving. I’m so happy to have you all here, to share in this very special holiday with me.” The cameras hovered. “I want to welcome the winning team from my show, to share in this dinner at this beautiful table, which they so creatively designed. I want to welcome my mother, who taught me everything I know,” Sybil said, raising her glass.

I’d seen her mother only once, on Sybil Hunter’s show, and she’d always seemed tough, or at least not very nurturing. In person, she looked energetic and feisty. She raised her glass, too. “You’re still learning, my dear,” she said. Alice smirked.

Sybil smiled stiffly and continued. “And to my sister, Alice, an asset to my business. And to my son, Harry, my pride and joy.” Harris looked uncomfortable, but raised his glass civilly. “I also want to welcome my good friend and colleague, Ian, and my late best friend’s daughter, Christine. I’ve always considered her part of the family.” She raised her glass and we toasted.

Then the kitchen staff began to bring out the food.

We had course after course—not the menu from the challenge I’d
designed, of course, but certainly one that Sybil had decided on herself. As each dish came out, Sybil regaled us with the details of what it was and how she had prepared it, and Judith added her commentary about what was done well or not quite right.

“Alice makes the cranberries better,” Sybil’s mother griped.

“Unofficially,” said Alice, smiling at her sister. “Officially, I can’t cook at all.”

I was astounded by how good everything tasted, and by the sheer amount of food. I didn’t want to miss a single dish, so I was careful to taste everything but never eat more than a few bites of anything.

As we ate, Christine, “the fiancée,” kept looking at us, the contestants. Finally, she addressed us, her voice soft and musical, like a lullaby. “What’s it like to be on Sybil’s show?” The question was a general one, so Shari jumped in to answer.

“It’s such an honor,” she said, glancing at Sybil. “It’s the rarest of opportunities. We’re all
soo thankful.
” Leave it to Shari to go for the extra brownnose points.

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” Monica said, her cheeks flushed from the champagne, already a little tipsy. “I can’t believe how hard it is. Such long hours and so much stress. I really think it’s asking too much. No offense, Sybil,” she said.

“It’s only going to get harder, my dear,” Sybil assured her.