anything in the world. Violet was a master at not letting her true feelings show.
Grant got back at Violet years later after the house came on the market again for fifteen million dollars and he refused to buy it for her, even though she begged him to and even though he loved it too. By that time Rainy’s opinion didn’t matter to her so much.
Grant told Violet, “Yes, I love it. Yes, I want it. And yes, I can affordit. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay fifteen million dollars for a house I could once have bought for six.”
The Harding house sat in the middle of a big wooded lot on the corner of Twenty-ninth and R, directly across the street from the old Oak Hill Cemetery and Montrose Park. I arrived first, and believe me, I checked to make sure no one was lurking around in the bushes. It was impossible to forget that a murder had occurred very recently and very nearby—practically across the street. The four-story limestone was in pretty bad shape. Withering ivy had clawed its way over most of the facade, and untended bushes mushroomed throughout the grounds.
Gay Harding had been a friend of my parents. Gay and my mother always stayed in touch, even when my parents moved back home to New York. When Gay heard that I’d moved to Washington, she invited me to several of her parties. At first the high-powered company terrified me, and I felt very out of place. But Gay made me feel right at home. In fact, it was at her house that I first met Grant Bolton and his parents. I don’t know if she’d purposely wanted to fix us up, but Grant and I did wind up having a few dates.
I was standing on the front steps recalling those carefree days of my youth when a black stretch limo pulled into the gravel driveway. Violet and Cynthia got out. Stretch limos were not remotely Violet’s style, and we exchanged a knowing glance as she walked up to the house. Cynthia looked around the grounds like a conqueror surveying captured territory. The three of us paused in front of the door with its antique brass lion’s-head knocker while Cynthia fumbled for the key in her large crocodile bag. As she opened the door, Violet joked, “Shall we carry you over the threshold?”
“No one carries me anywhere, honey,” Cynthia snapped. “I go places all by myself.”
Violet and I just looked at each other. This gal had no humor. None. Nada. Zero. Zippo. But she did have this great house, which tells you something.
It had been several years since I’d been there. The interior reeked of mildew and neglect, a sharp contrast to the delicious aroma of baking apples that had once greeted visitors in autumn. My mother told me how Mrs. Harding had ordered her chef to keep a pot of applessimmering on the stove in the fall so their delicious scent filled the air. Run-down as it was, there was still an aura of Old World grandeur about the place. We walked through to the famous living room, whose walls had once been described as “the color of burnt roses” by Folly Pritchard, another Georgetown socialite, also gone.
In its heyday, that room had been the social pinnacle of Georgetown, packed nightly with testosterone, power, and ambition. Everyone who was anyone had come to Gay’s famous salon—presidents, heads of state, senators, congressmen, cabinet members, ambassadors, supreme court justices, journalists, television personalities, philanthropists, socialites, top military brass, business leaders, as well as Gay’s pets of the moment, many of whom, like myself, had no special perch on the rungs of power, but were simply people she liked. Gay was grand enough to entertain anyone she pleased.
The warmth of those parties had chilled into history. The living room’s once voluminous gray curtains hung in shreds from the windows, like silk spaghetti. The place was stately but sad, like a decrepit dowager in a tattered dress. Aside from a few pieces of insignificant furniture, the only thing that remained from the old days was Gay
Grant got back at Violet years later after the house came on the market again for fifteen million dollars and he refused to buy it for her, even though she begged him to and even though he loved it too. By that time Rainy’s opinion didn’t matter to her so much.
Grant told Violet, “Yes, I love it. Yes, I want it. And yes, I can affordit. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay fifteen million dollars for a house I could once have bought for six.”
The Harding house sat in the middle of a big wooded lot on the corner of Twenty-ninth and R, directly across the street from the old Oak Hill Cemetery and Montrose Park. I arrived first, and believe me, I checked to make sure no one was lurking around in the bushes. It was impossible to forget that a murder had occurred very recently and very nearby—practically across the street. The four-story limestone was in pretty bad shape. Withering ivy had clawed its way over most of the facade, and untended bushes mushroomed throughout the grounds.
Gay Harding had been a friend of my parents. Gay and my mother always stayed in touch, even when my parents moved back home to New York. When Gay heard that I’d moved to Washington, she invited me to several of her parties. At first the high-powered company terrified me, and I felt very out of place. But Gay made me feel right at home. In fact, it was at her house that I first met Grant Bolton and his parents. I don’t know if she’d purposely wanted to fix us up, but Grant and I did wind up having a few dates.
I was standing on the front steps recalling those carefree days of my youth when a black stretch limo pulled into the gravel driveway. Violet and Cynthia got out. Stretch limos were not remotely Violet’s style, and we exchanged a knowing glance as she walked up to the house. Cynthia looked around the grounds like a conqueror surveying captured territory. The three of us paused in front of the door with its antique brass lion’s-head knocker while Cynthia fumbled for the key in her large crocodile bag. As she opened the door, Violet joked, “Shall we carry you over the threshold?”
“No one carries me anywhere, honey,” Cynthia snapped. “I go places all by myself.”
Violet and I just looked at each other. This gal had no humor. None. Nada. Zero. Zippo. But she did have this great house, which tells you something.
It had been several years since I’d been there. The interior reeked of mildew and neglect, a sharp contrast to the delicious aroma of baking apples that had once greeted visitors in autumn. My mother told me how Mrs. Harding had ordered her chef to keep a pot of applessimmering on the stove in the fall so their delicious scent filled the air. Run-down as it was, there was still an aura of Old World grandeur about the place. We walked through to the famous living room, whose walls had once been described as “the color of burnt roses” by Folly Pritchard, another Georgetown socialite, also gone.
In its heyday, that room had been the social pinnacle of Georgetown, packed nightly with testosterone, power, and ambition. Everyone who was anyone had come to Gay’s famous salon—presidents, heads of state, senators, congressmen, cabinet members, ambassadors, supreme court justices, journalists, television personalities, philanthropists, socialites, top military brass, business leaders, as well as Gay’s pets of the moment, many of whom, like myself, had no special perch on the rungs of power, but were simply people she liked. Gay was grand enough to entertain anyone she pleased.
The warmth of those parties had chilled into history. The living room’s once voluminous gray curtains hung in shreds from the windows, like silk spaghetti. The place was stately but sad, like a decrepit dowager in a tattered dress. Aside from a few pieces of insignificant furniture, the only thing that remained from the old days was Gay
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