surrendered my invitation to a uniformed flunky. I stood a moment to look about and then had to step out of the way as more guests continued to arrive. But the interior of that home was worth close inspection.
If the exterior had been charmless, the inside was something else again. Warm elegance is the only way I can describe it. High ceilings, museum-quality parquet floors, walls papered in an antique trompe l’oeil pattern, furnishings at once attractive and selected for comfort. There were some odd decorative touches that caught the eye: a marvelous model of the first motorcar (an 1886 Benz) in a glass display case; a mysterious Cycladic female figurine; a rattan fireplace screen mimicking a peacock’s tail.
There were at least a dozen guests waiting to be received. I took my place at the end of the line and waited patiently. I had expected to be greeted by Sarah and Horace Whitcomb plus son Oliver and daughter-in-law Mitzi. But as the line moved slowly forward I saw that only an oldish gentleman was shaking hands and alongside him, in a wheelchair, was a lady I presumed to be his spouse. There was nothing doddery about either. They spoke animatedly, laughed frequently, and obviously were enlivened by their roles as hosts for this crowded jollification.
“Horace Whitcomb,” he said, smiling and holding out a sinewy hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having me, sir,” I said, shaking that hard paw. “I’m Archy McNally, Prescott’s son.”
“Of course! So nice to meet you.”
“The honor is mine,” I said. “You have a lovely home, Mr. Whitcomb.”
He gave me a wry-crisp grin. “It’s really an ugly heap, isn’t it? My father tore a photo from a magazine and had the architect imitate it.”
“The exterior may be a bit awkward,” I admitted, “but the interior is a sheer delight.”
He was obviously pleased, a tall and slender man with the ramrod posture of a drill instructor. His fine hair was silvered and pale blue eyes were startling against suntanned skin. He had a scimitar nose and there was a network of laugh lines at the corners of his wide mouth. A genial patrician. And something majestic about him.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “Perhaps you and I might have a chat later.”
“I’d like that, sir.”
“Meanwhile I want you to meet my dear wife, Sarah, the lady responsible for the sheer delight you mentioned.”
He introduced us and went back to greeting arriving guests. I leaned over the wheelchair and gently pressed the frail hand offered me.
“How good of you to come,” she said in a wispy voice.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” I said. “I understand it’s your birthday.”
She nodded. “But I’m not counting,” she cautioned.
“I apologize for not bringing a gift.”
“Your presence is gift enough,” she said.
I suppose she had uttered that line fifty times during the evening, but I still thought it an extraordinarily gracious thing to say.
She seemed shrunken. The skin of her bare forearms was wrinkled as if she had once weighed many pounds more but the flesh had simply sloughed away. There was a waxen pallor beneath her makeup, and she wore a multicolored turban that covered her entire skull. I suspected she was undergoing chemotherapy and had lost her hair. But her spirit was undaunted.
“Are you married?” she asked me.
“No, ma’am, I am not.”
“Do you want to be?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.”
She laughed and reached up to pat my arm. “I don’t blame you one damned bit,” she said. “Well, you’re a handsome devil. Now go mingle and break a few hearts.”
“Before I do that,” I said, “I must tell you how much I admire the decor of your home. It’s just splendid.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “it is beautiful, isn’t it? This home has been my passion. I wanted everything to be perfect”
“You’ve succeeded brilliantly,” I assured her.
She looked longingly at the vast entrance hall, through the
If the exterior had been charmless, the inside was something else again. Warm elegance is the only way I can describe it. High ceilings, museum-quality parquet floors, walls papered in an antique trompe l’oeil pattern, furnishings at once attractive and selected for comfort. There were some odd decorative touches that caught the eye: a marvelous model of the first motorcar (an 1886 Benz) in a glass display case; a mysterious Cycladic female figurine; a rattan fireplace screen mimicking a peacock’s tail.
There were at least a dozen guests waiting to be received. I took my place at the end of the line and waited patiently. I had expected to be greeted by Sarah and Horace Whitcomb plus son Oliver and daughter-in-law Mitzi. But as the line moved slowly forward I saw that only an oldish gentleman was shaking hands and alongside him, in a wheelchair, was a lady I presumed to be his spouse. There was nothing doddery about either. They spoke animatedly, laughed frequently, and obviously were enlivened by their roles as hosts for this crowded jollification.
“Horace Whitcomb,” he said, smiling and holding out a sinewy hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having me, sir,” I said, shaking that hard paw. “I’m Archy McNally, Prescott’s son.”
“Of course! So nice to meet you.”
“The honor is mine,” I said. “You have a lovely home, Mr. Whitcomb.”
He gave me a wry-crisp grin. “It’s really an ugly heap, isn’t it? My father tore a photo from a magazine and had the architect imitate it.”
“The exterior may be a bit awkward,” I admitted, “but the interior is a sheer delight.”
He was obviously pleased, a tall and slender man with the ramrod posture of a drill instructor. His fine hair was silvered and pale blue eyes were startling against suntanned skin. He had a scimitar nose and there was a network of laugh lines at the corners of his wide mouth. A genial patrician. And something majestic about him.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “Perhaps you and I might have a chat later.”
“I’d like that, sir.”
“Meanwhile I want you to meet my dear wife, Sarah, the lady responsible for the sheer delight you mentioned.”
He introduced us and went back to greeting arriving guests. I leaned over the wheelchair and gently pressed the frail hand offered me.
“How good of you to come,” she said in a wispy voice.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” I said. “I understand it’s your birthday.”
She nodded. “But I’m not counting,” she cautioned.
“I apologize for not bringing a gift.”
“Your presence is gift enough,” she said.
I suppose she had uttered that line fifty times during the evening, but I still thought it an extraordinarily gracious thing to say.
She seemed shrunken. The skin of her bare forearms was wrinkled as if she had once weighed many pounds more but the flesh had simply sloughed away. There was a waxen pallor beneath her makeup, and she wore a multicolored turban that covered her entire skull. I suspected she was undergoing chemotherapy and had lost her hair. But her spirit was undaunted.
“Are you married?” she asked me.
“No, ma’am, I am not.”
“Do you want to be?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.”
She laughed and reached up to pat my arm. “I don’t blame you one damned bit,” she said. “Well, you’re a handsome devil. Now go mingle and break a few hearts.”
“Before I do that,” I said, “I must tell you how much I admire the decor of your home. It’s just splendid.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “it is beautiful, isn’t it? This home has been my passion. I wanted everything to be perfect”
“You’ve succeeded brilliantly,” I assured her.
She looked longingly at the vast entrance hall, through the
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