director.”
“Really!” This time, Mallory figured she was entitled to sound impressed. “What kind of films?”
“The big-budget Hollywood kind,” Brett boomed before his guest had a chance to respond. “Tell her the titles of some of the movies you've made, Gordo.”
“I'm sure Mallory isn't interested in hearing my life story,” Gordon said dryly, staring into his glass. “She's just being polite.”
Mallory was surprised to see a slight flush rise to his cheeks. From what she'd heard, directors had the largest egos in Hollywood—no small distinction in a place like Tinsel Town where egos routinely grew bigger than the Hollywood Bowl. So she couldn't imagine why Gordon would be the least bit reluctant to dazzle her with his list of film credits.
“This is no time to be modest, Gordo my man!” Brett insisted. “Here, I'll do it for you.” He rattled off the names of a half dozen movies. She not only recognized them; she also remembered that they had starred such big-name actors as Burt Reynolds, Jill Clayburgh, Ryan O'Neal, and George C. Scott.
It took her a second or two to realize that while all the actors who had starred in Gordon Swig's movies were famous, their superstardom dated back at least thirty years.
Which meant Gordon Swig was—for lack of a more graceful word—a has-been.
“How exciting!” Mallory remarked graciously. “I've seen every one of those movies.”
“Then you must own a DVD player,” Gordon replied with a sardonic smile.
“Gordon's gotten into some other things in more recent years,” Carly said, answering the awkward question, “So what have you done
lately?”
that hung in the air.
Fortunately, Juanita chose that moment to make another grand entrance.
“How ees lobster candy?” she asked, putting her hands on her broad hips and glancing around the table expectantly. “Ees good?”
“Lobster
lollipops,”
Carly corrected her. “And they were excellent, as usual.”
Juanita's eyebrows shot up as if receiving a compliment from the lady of the house was as much of a rarity around here as Dress-Down Friday.
“Then I bring out the next course,” she said as she began collecting plates.
What next? Mallory wondered. Lamb flown over from New Zealand—in first class?
Even though she was off by a few thousand miles, she wasn't disappointed that the evening's entrée turned out to be elk. True, it was so local that she could picture the main course while it was still on four legs, frolicking on the mountainside with those goats she'd been imagining not long before. But she'd already learned that the cuisine chez Berman was, indeed, worth flying in from L.A. for.
“So what about you, Mallory?” Gordon asked pleasantly as he passed her a massive plate piled high with slabs of meat. “What brings you to Aspen?”
“I'm a travel writer.” Mallory realized that even after four months on the job, she still surprised herself every time she said those words. “I'm doing anarticle on Aspen for a publication called
The Good Life.
“In fact,” she said, nervously glancing at Carly, “I'm hoping that Carly won't mind being the main focus. I want to write about why entrepreneurs who target an upscale clientele choose Aspen as the location for their businesses, as opposed to Beverly Hills or Palm Beach or Greenwich. We have a meeting at Tavaci Springs set up for Thursday, and I'm hoping she'll agree to an in-depth interview that goes a bit beyond the usual questions and routine answers.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Gordon said, nodding. “And perfect for
The Good Life.
It's a magazine I know well. In fact, it's gotten me through many an otherwise boring plane ride.”
“That's because Gordo's flying coach these days, instead of in his own plane,” Brett wisecracked.
Carly cast her husband a dirty look. Gordon pretended not to notice either the comment or the expression.
“And I assume your article is geared toward skiers…?” he commented.
“Actually,
“Really!” This time, Mallory figured she was entitled to sound impressed. “What kind of films?”
“The big-budget Hollywood kind,” Brett boomed before his guest had a chance to respond. “Tell her the titles of some of the movies you've made, Gordo.”
“I'm sure Mallory isn't interested in hearing my life story,” Gordon said dryly, staring into his glass. “She's just being polite.”
Mallory was surprised to see a slight flush rise to his cheeks. From what she'd heard, directors had the largest egos in Hollywood—no small distinction in a place like Tinsel Town where egos routinely grew bigger than the Hollywood Bowl. So she couldn't imagine why Gordon would be the least bit reluctant to dazzle her with his list of film credits.
“This is no time to be modest, Gordo my man!” Brett insisted. “Here, I'll do it for you.” He rattled off the names of a half dozen movies. She not only recognized them; she also remembered that they had starred such big-name actors as Burt Reynolds, Jill Clayburgh, Ryan O'Neal, and George C. Scott.
It took her a second or two to realize that while all the actors who had starred in Gordon Swig's movies were famous, their superstardom dated back at least thirty years.
Which meant Gordon Swig was—for lack of a more graceful word—a has-been.
“How exciting!” Mallory remarked graciously. “I've seen every one of those movies.”
“Then you must own a DVD player,” Gordon replied with a sardonic smile.
“Gordon's gotten into some other things in more recent years,” Carly said, answering the awkward question, “So what have you done
lately?”
that hung in the air.
Fortunately, Juanita chose that moment to make another grand entrance.
“How ees lobster candy?” she asked, putting her hands on her broad hips and glancing around the table expectantly. “Ees good?”
“Lobster
lollipops,”
Carly corrected her. “And they were excellent, as usual.”
Juanita's eyebrows shot up as if receiving a compliment from the lady of the house was as much of a rarity around here as Dress-Down Friday.
“Then I bring out the next course,” she said as she began collecting plates.
What next? Mallory wondered. Lamb flown over from New Zealand—in first class?
Even though she was off by a few thousand miles, she wasn't disappointed that the evening's entrée turned out to be elk. True, it was so local that she could picture the main course while it was still on four legs, frolicking on the mountainside with those goats she'd been imagining not long before. But she'd already learned that the cuisine chez Berman was, indeed, worth flying in from L.A. for.
“So what about you, Mallory?” Gordon asked pleasantly as he passed her a massive plate piled high with slabs of meat. “What brings you to Aspen?”
“I'm a travel writer.” Mallory realized that even after four months on the job, she still surprised herself every time she said those words. “I'm doing anarticle on Aspen for a publication called
The Good Life.
“In fact,” she said, nervously glancing at Carly, “I'm hoping that Carly won't mind being the main focus. I want to write about why entrepreneurs who target an upscale clientele choose Aspen as the location for their businesses, as opposed to Beverly Hills or Palm Beach or Greenwich. We have a meeting at Tavaci Springs set up for Thursday, and I'm hoping she'll agree to an in-depth interview that goes a bit beyond the usual questions and routine answers.”
“Sounds fascinating,” Gordon said, nodding. “And perfect for
The Good Life.
It's a magazine I know well. In fact, it's gotten me through many an otherwise boring plane ride.”
“That's because Gordo's flying coach these days, instead of in his own plane,” Brett wisecracked.
Carly cast her husband a dirty look. Gordon pretended not to notice either the comment or the expression.
“And I assume your article is geared toward skiers…?” he commented.
“Actually,
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