like this was the answer to all my debts, and I was grateful she’d strongly recommended me to Cynthia. Violet was truly my best friend.
“I’m interested,” I said brightly.
I’d only taken a couple of decorating jobs since opening my shop, because I just didn’t have the time. Neither was as major as this one, but they’d both turned out extremely well. The clients were pleased, plus I’d managed to make some extra money because I was able to furnish the jobs with some of my own stock. Monetary benefits aside, however, I knew it would be fun to redo Mrs. Harding’s old house, not to mention a big feather in my cap.
We all agreed to meet at the house that afternoon. As Cynthia browsed around the shop, Violet took me aside and asked me if I’d heard from Bob Poll. When I told her I hadn’t, she said that she and Grant had taken a table for the PEN/Faulkner evening at the Folger on Friday night. She suggested I call Bob and ask him if he wanted to be my date.
“Sometimes you have to give these guys a little push,” she said.
Call me old-fashioned, but I never think it’s a good idea to call a man when he hasn’t called you first. That doesn’t mean I haven’t done it, of course. I rationalized calling Bob by remembering he’d sent me those roses. He seemed to enjoy the company of social heavy hitters, and the Boltons certainly qualified as such. I knew that Grant would put together a good table, with a sprinkling of political luminaries as well. I bit the bullet and called Bob’s office, since his home number was unlisted. I was put through to his secretary, an officious-sounding woman who clearly thought of herself as Cerberus at the gate. When I asked to speak to Bob, she asked me who I was, why I was calling, if “Mr. Poll” knew me, and so on. I answered her questions politely and issued my invitation. She said that she was sure that Mr. Poll had “something on his calendar that night,” but that she would “pass along” my request. She asked for my telephone number and my e-mail address, “just in case Mr. Poll doesn’t have them.”
I told Rosina what I’d done. Naturally, she thought it was a bad idea. “You should always wait for a man to call you. Otherwise you set a bad pattern.”
I didn’t really disagree with her, but I had to defend my action. We were arguing back and forth about the merits of women making the first move when the phone rang. It was Bob’s secretary, Felicity, as she introduced herself. She informed me that “Mr. Poll would be pleased” to attend the dinner with me and that he would “have his chauffeur” pick me up at my house at six thirty sharp on Friday evening. They had the address.
“See how fast he got back to me,” I said to Rosina after I hung up.
“He didn’t. His secretary did. Not a good sign.”
Rosina was like a freaking soothsayer. Still, I was pleased.
As I walked over to Gay Harding’s house that afternoon, I wondered if Cynthia was aware that Violet had her own little history with that property. Right after Mrs. Harding died going on ten years ago, her heirs put the house on the market. Grant and Violet wanted to buy it. But Rainy Bolton had been a great friend of Mrs. Harding’s, and for some reason she considered it unseemly for her son to own such a well-known property. She famously proclaimed: “That house will always be Gay Harding’s house, no matter who owns it.”
At the time, Violet suspected that her mother-in-law was just jealous and didn’t want her son to have a grander house than she did. But Violet saw this as an opportunity to further ingratiate herself with the Boltons, so she sided with them against Grant, which I thought was a big error. Violet explained she had her reasons, however, and I have to say it was impressive watching Violet tell Rainy that she too didn’t think it was appropriate for her and Grant to own Gay Harding’s house, when all the while I knew she coveted that house more than
“I’m interested,” I said brightly.
I’d only taken a couple of decorating jobs since opening my shop, because I just didn’t have the time. Neither was as major as this one, but they’d both turned out extremely well. The clients were pleased, plus I’d managed to make some extra money because I was able to furnish the jobs with some of my own stock. Monetary benefits aside, however, I knew it would be fun to redo Mrs. Harding’s old house, not to mention a big feather in my cap.
We all agreed to meet at the house that afternoon. As Cynthia browsed around the shop, Violet took me aside and asked me if I’d heard from Bob Poll. When I told her I hadn’t, she said that she and Grant had taken a table for the PEN/Faulkner evening at the Folger on Friday night. She suggested I call Bob and ask him if he wanted to be my date.
“Sometimes you have to give these guys a little push,” she said.
Call me old-fashioned, but I never think it’s a good idea to call a man when he hasn’t called you first. That doesn’t mean I haven’t done it, of course. I rationalized calling Bob by remembering he’d sent me those roses. He seemed to enjoy the company of social heavy hitters, and the Boltons certainly qualified as such. I knew that Grant would put together a good table, with a sprinkling of political luminaries as well. I bit the bullet and called Bob’s office, since his home number was unlisted. I was put through to his secretary, an officious-sounding woman who clearly thought of herself as Cerberus at the gate. When I asked to speak to Bob, she asked me who I was, why I was calling, if “Mr. Poll” knew me, and so on. I answered her questions politely and issued my invitation. She said that she was sure that Mr. Poll had “something on his calendar that night,” but that she would “pass along” my request. She asked for my telephone number and my e-mail address, “just in case Mr. Poll doesn’t have them.”
I told Rosina what I’d done. Naturally, she thought it was a bad idea. “You should always wait for a man to call you. Otherwise you set a bad pattern.”
I didn’t really disagree with her, but I had to defend my action. We were arguing back and forth about the merits of women making the first move when the phone rang. It was Bob’s secretary, Felicity, as she introduced herself. She informed me that “Mr. Poll would be pleased” to attend the dinner with me and that he would “have his chauffeur” pick me up at my house at six thirty sharp on Friday evening. They had the address.
“See how fast he got back to me,” I said to Rosina after I hung up.
“He didn’t. His secretary did. Not a good sign.”
Rosina was like a freaking soothsayer. Still, I was pleased.
As I walked over to Gay Harding’s house that afternoon, I wondered if Cynthia was aware that Violet had her own little history with that property. Right after Mrs. Harding died going on ten years ago, her heirs put the house on the market. Grant and Violet wanted to buy it. But Rainy Bolton had been a great friend of Mrs. Harding’s, and for some reason she considered it unseemly for her son to own such a well-known property. She famously proclaimed: “That house will always be Gay Harding’s house, no matter who owns it.”
At the time, Violet suspected that her mother-in-law was just jealous and didn’t want her son to have a grander house than she did. But Violet saw this as an opportunity to further ingratiate herself with the Boltons, so she sided with them against Grant, which I thought was a big error. Violet explained she had her reasons, however, and I have to say it was impressive watching Violet tell Rainy that she too didn’t think it was appropriate for her and Grant to own Gay Harding’s house, when all the while I knew she coveted that house more than
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