want to see, and yes, touch, the Hammetts and the Chandlers. I was impressed that she’d managednot to drool. But she’s nothing if not a good negotiator. Her first principle: You have to be prepared to walk away. They can sense that.
Chadwick pursed his thin lips and glanced at me once more past those thick eyelids, as if I were responsible for Vera’s rudeness. I kept my mouth closed. Although I found myself disliking Chadwick more by the minute, I didn’t want to ruin lunch. Instead, I smiled and said, “What a beautiful room. I love the light and the view. It must be lovely in the summer looking down the lawn to the water.” I didn’t say, “Holy crap, is that a real Andrew Wyeth?”
Miss Troy, who had continued watching Chadwick intensely, produced a warm smile that transformed her face. “Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? What a shame this isn’t later in the season.”
Chadwick barely stifled a yawn and said to Vera, “Who knows? We may have more transactions in the future and you could enjoy a visit here in June.”
Vera didn’t even acknowledge this, but Miss Troy shot an odd look at Chadwick. His reaction—a subtle frown and almost imperceptible shake of his head—caused her to turn pale. Her hand went to her mouth. If it hadn’t been for that splendid manicure, I would have bet she might have nibbled at her nails. What was that exchange of glances all about?
Not my problem, I decided. If Chadwick Kauffman made his assistant nervous and was a jackass to boot, I would be glad not to see him again. All I wanted was this one memorable luncheon in
his
house.
After we polished off our mimosas in the sitting room and the desultory conversation ground to an end, at last we headed for the dining room.
The dining room was also splendid and heavy on the mahogany, not what you’d expect in a “summer house.” But then nothing in Summerlea was.
My raspberry dress was equal to the occasion.
The room was easily as formal as Vera’s in Val Alst House, although in better repair. The centerpiece was eye-catching, and there was no tablecloth, but rather snowy white and crisp place mats, as the etiquette books suggested, and the five place settings of Wedgwood china, luncheon-sized, were perfect. Emily Post would have approved. The silverware tips were exactly (I didn’t have to measure) one inch from the edge of the table, all of it looking as though it had been freshly polished. There was lots of gleaming silver around. They couldn’t have done any better at Downton Abbey. I wondered if there was a hidden tweeny or a second footman or someone to do that job. Maybe poor old Thomas had been stuck with it. I couldn’t resist a glance at his hands for telltale silverware polish residue, but all I saw was a few green stains. Did Chadwick have Thomas working in the garden as well as doing all the work for our luncheon? I doubted that the Kauffmans had to cut corners and get staff to multitask like we did.
Let’s face it though, four generations earlier when Summerlea was in its heyday, I wouldn’t have been the researcher in the hot vintage number; I would have been the hidden tweeny with aspirations to be an upstairs maid.
By some miracle, we reached a deal over the lunch. I loved the light cream soup served in bowls with handles, and the poached salmon and homemade mayonnaise, although Vera barely nudged her food. Chadwick showed almost no interest in his, and the willowy Miss Troy seemed to push hers around on the plate. I noticed a small tic under her eye. Perhaps there was a lot of stress dealing with Magnus Kauffman’s estate. But as the meal was delectable, I concentrated on that. I managed not to disgrace myself and left one mouthful on my plate, but Uncle Kev ate as though he’d been fasting for days. Considering that he’d been coddled by the signora, that took some doing.
I was in no hurry for our visit to end, not because I liked the company, but because I loved Summerlea. However,
Chadwick pursed his thin lips and glanced at me once more past those thick eyelids, as if I were responsible for Vera’s rudeness. I kept my mouth closed. Although I found myself disliking Chadwick more by the minute, I didn’t want to ruin lunch. Instead, I smiled and said, “What a beautiful room. I love the light and the view. It must be lovely in the summer looking down the lawn to the water.” I didn’t say, “Holy crap, is that a real Andrew Wyeth?”
Miss Troy, who had continued watching Chadwick intensely, produced a warm smile that transformed her face. “Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? What a shame this isn’t later in the season.”
Chadwick barely stifled a yawn and said to Vera, “Who knows? We may have more transactions in the future and you could enjoy a visit here in June.”
Vera didn’t even acknowledge this, but Miss Troy shot an odd look at Chadwick. His reaction—a subtle frown and almost imperceptible shake of his head—caused her to turn pale. Her hand went to her mouth. If it hadn’t been for that splendid manicure, I would have bet she might have nibbled at her nails. What was that exchange of glances all about?
Not my problem, I decided. If Chadwick Kauffman made his assistant nervous and was a jackass to boot, I would be glad not to see him again. All I wanted was this one memorable luncheon in
his
house.
After we polished off our mimosas in the sitting room and the desultory conversation ground to an end, at last we headed for the dining room.
The dining room was also splendid and heavy on the mahogany, not what you’d expect in a “summer house.” But then nothing in Summerlea was.
My raspberry dress was equal to the occasion.
The room was easily as formal as Vera’s in Val Alst House, although in better repair. The centerpiece was eye-catching, and there was no tablecloth, but rather snowy white and crisp place mats, as the etiquette books suggested, and the five place settings of Wedgwood china, luncheon-sized, were perfect. Emily Post would have approved. The silverware tips were exactly (I didn’t have to measure) one inch from the edge of the table, all of it looking as though it had been freshly polished. There was lots of gleaming silver around. They couldn’t have done any better at Downton Abbey. I wondered if there was a hidden tweeny or a second footman or someone to do that job. Maybe poor old Thomas had been stuck with it. I couldn’t resist a glance at his hands for telltale silverware polish residue, but all I saw was a few green stains. Did Chadwick have Thomas working in the garden as well as doing all the work for our luncheon? I doubted that the Kauffmans had to cut corners and get staff to multitask like we did.
Let’s face it though, four generations earlier when Summerlea was in its heyday, I wouldn’t have been the researcher in the hot vintage number; I would have been the hidden tweeny with aspirations to be an upstairs maid.
By some miracle, we reached a deal over the lunch. I loved the light cream soup served in bowls with handles, and the poached salmon and homemade mayonnaise, although Vera barely nudged her food. Chadwick showed almost no interest in his, and the willowy Miss Troy seemed to push hers around on the plate. I noticed a small tic under her eye. Perhaps there was a lot of stress dealing with Magnus Kauffman’s estate. But as the meal was delectable, I concentrated on that. I managed not to disgrace myself and left one mouthful on my plate, but Uncle Kev ate as though he’d been fasting for days. Considering that he’d been coddled by the signora, that took some doing.
I was in no hurry for our visit to end, not because I liked the company, but because I loved Summerlea. However,
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