Judith Krantz (48 page)

“Why, Lord have mercy, I wouldn’t leave home without it. I assume you have a list like that too, sweetie pie.” Red looked haughty.

“Naturally.”

“Then show it to me,” Red demanded.

“I believe I forgot to bring it … in the excitement of the moment … a perfectly natural omission. In fact, I forgot to make it.”

“Me too.”

“I knew it! And I was worried that you might be totally organized, like Phoebe.”

“Who’s Phoebe?”

“Oh Red! Somebody new I can complain to about Phoebe! Heaven! Bliss! But I’ll save it for the next time … you won’t believe the sheer horror of Phoebe without an hour of details, and I don’t want to distract us from making headway with Christmas. There are only ten days left.”

“I don’t really need a list,” Red confessed. “I ordered the presents for my folks and my brothers and their kids in Texas by catalog long ago, so I’m just shopping for Mike, and a little something for Casey.”

“Would you believe that I have to get presents for five men?” Jazz asked. “Mel and Pete, my partners; Sam, my … I suppose you’d have to call him my boyfriend—more or less; Casey, my I don’t know what, but he’s a cousin anyway and I have to get him some tiny little token; and Dad.”

“What about this Phoebe? Does she get a present?”

“A canary. To match her hair. Or maybe I should just stuff it in her mouth, as a small warning. Hell! I forgot Valerie and Fernanda and all their kids! At the
ranch for Christmas week—Dad told me but I blocked it out as usual. That means—oh, no!—that makes ten more presents on top of the five men!”

“Why did you have to remind me?” Red moaned. “If I was terrified of your reaction, how do you think I feel about your sisters? They couldn’t be coming at a worse time. I haven’t seen them since the Fiesta … they’re going to sincerely hate me, I just know it, but Mike says I’m being silly. He hasn’t even told them yet, just you and Casey.”

“What’s Dad planning? Not, I hope, a surprise announcement on Christmas Eve? Please, Red, darling, please promise me it isn’t something like that.”

“I have the awful feeling that it is. He’s been resolutely mysterious and humming to himself. Carols, Christmas carols … they make my blood run cold. You know how stubborn your father is, sweetie. I’ve never loved another man, not really, not like I love Mike, but even you’ve got to admit that he has one minor fault—he likes to have his own way. I can’t get a word out of him about what he’s going to do, and I’ve tried every which way. He never realized it, but at the Fiesta those two vixens were sitting there glaring at me like Cinderella’s wicked stepsisters, when all Mike and I were doing was dancing together. What’s it going to be like when they find out?”

“Red, remember the first time we worked together, the time you were the editor and I was the photographer and we took three models to the Virgin Islands to do resort wear? A hurricane struck, the electricity went out, there wasn’t any running water, the makeup artist and hair stylist broke up their long love affair and the models all got food poisoning?”

“How could I forget?”

“It probably won’t be quite that bad.” Jazz grinned fiendishly.

“Gee, Jazz, thanks.”

“I’d be wrong not to warn you … and we survived the hurricane. And we got the pictures. Personally, I can’t wait to see my sisters’ faces, but you’d be better off averting your eyes. Look, they’ll never dare
be nasty to you in front of Dad. And I promise, on my honor, I’ll never leave you alone with them. I’ll buy you a whole set of Lakers sweats and a purple satin jacket. You can wear them the whole time and I’ll wear mine. We’ll form a Gang of Two.”

“Thanks … but I hate it that Mike’s caught in the middle. You know how much store he sets by his family.”

“That he does, little as they deserve it, but they’ll hardly ever be around … a maximum of twice a year for brief appearances, duty visits. If you’d just do the right thing and have a baby, they might boycott the ranch for a while.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You want me to have a baby?” Red asked, astonished.

“I’d
adore
it. You’ve never had any children—don’t you want one?” Jazz asked. After all, Red was forty-one and presumably she should be fixated on immediate reproduction, if the television show “thirtysomething,” her chief sociological guide, was right about what women of that age really wanted.

“I’m … honestly not sure. I want to be with Mike, always, all the time. Wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, I’ll be keeping busy and waiting, more or less patiently, until he shows up. That’s the only thing I’m positive of right now. Why would he want a baby around now, distracting me from him? And why would I want to divide my time?” Red looked puzzled. Should she want a baby? Wouldn’t she have had one by now if she did?

“Hold those thoughts … my TV-network prime-time sources say you’ve got three or four more years to decide. Now I think it’s safe to go into Dunhill’s. Since you’ve got practically nothing to buy yourself, you can advise me.”

The two women entered the shop and circled around with the narrow-eyed, radar-like, concentrated gaze of expert shoppers, a look that keeps equally
experienced salespeople from approaching them too quickly. Women like these two, the Dunhill salesman knew, didn’t want to be interrupted until they saw something they liked, and then, at that very instant, they would expect to be waited on. One alone was bad enough; two together were certain hell, since that meant both of them had to be convinced. They were the kind, he guessed from their sternly critical expressions, who believed that a good opinion was too precious a thing to waste. What’s more, from the way they were both dressed, in those easy, flapping, slouchy, on-the-verge-of-sloppy trousers, vests and jackets that screamed genuine Armani, they’d only want the very best.

“Jazz … what do you think?” Red held up a cashmere cardigan in a subdued Argyle pattern.

“He’d never wear it. Too busy.”

“I didn’t think so either. What about this?” She held up a solid blue cable-stitched cashmere pullover.

“Yes indeed,” Jazz approved.

“May I help you?” the salesman asked, seeing his opening.

“Do you have this in a forty-two?”

“Certainly, madam.”

“Good. I’ll take it. Jazz, what about these Glen plaid cashmere mufflers?” Red asked.

“Dad’s not the muffler type.”

“But they’re so beautiful! I love them.”

“I know. Men’s clothes are so much nicer than women’s. I’d get one for Pete, but it’s too elegant. He dresses as if he’s leaving on an Outward Bound expedition, even when he goes dancing. Especially when he goes dancing. Look, if you give me this one and I give you that one, we’ll have finished our shopping for each other—does that sound too unsentimental to you?”

“You’re on!” Red was enchanted to find another female who understood that the only gift to give a woman you really cared about was something you were dying to buy for yourself. She handed the two
splendid lengths of cashmere to the salesman, who was beginning to reconsider his opinion of these ladies.

“Jazz, just look at the honey color of the wood on this box.” Red turned to the salesman. “What is it?”

“It’s a game set, madam. You have all your chips, your cards, your dice, everything you need to play any kind of game, and the box itself is olive wood burl.”

“Wouldn’t it be great for cold winter evenings?” Red asked. Jazz nodded enthusiastically, picturing Red and Mike playing cards in front of a fire. “We’ll have poker parties too. The hacienda needs to have parties in it again.” She gave the large box to the salesman to put with the other things she’d found.

“May I show you some leather jackets, madam?”

Jazz and Red both looked at him in amazement. Neither one of them would have presumed to buy Mike Kilkullen a leather jacket. He
had
a leather jacket, a well-seasoned leather jacket that he’d worn forever, and if he ever decided that he needed a new one, which seemed highly unlikely, he’d certainly buy it for himself. Who knew what a man who lived on horseback would want in a leather jacket? It was an absolutely personal purchase.

“You’ve bought my present, I’ve bought your present, and you bought Dad two presents. That leaves me right back where I started,” Jazz said plaintively.

“Why don’t you get Casey another one of those mufflers?” Red suggested. “He dresses so well.”

“No way—didn’t you see the price tag?”

“Sure—two hundred and ninety-five dollars,” Red said.

“I can’t possibly spend that much on him … he’d misunderstand, and I have a law about not creating misunderstandings with Casey.” Jazz shook her head with determination.

“It’s a delicate problem,” Red mused, “spending money on a man unless you’re engaged or married.
Too much and you look as if you’re overboard, too little and you look as if you don’t really care. In fact, you look downright cheap. I’m so glad Mike agreed that I could spoil him as much as I wanted … if we hadn’t gotten engaged until after Christmas, I’d only dare to give him a book. Oh, maybe two books, the big, expensive, coffee-table kind.”

They walked briskly along the wide interior streets of South Coast Plaza. Mountains of beige marble in three different colors had been leveled to cover the walls; more marble, in shades that contrasted from light to medium gray, were inlaid underfoot. Forests of slow-growing fishtail palms, fifty-foot giants, grew from the lower level of the plaza to the skylights of the upper level, so that walking from shop to shop made them feel as if they had been airlifted to Hawaii. Round topiary trees constructed from gilded branches and covered with tiny, clear Christmas lights were everywhere, and a ring of glittering ficus trees circled the Jewel Court, where the wide network of marble walks met under a canopy of stained glass.

At Vuitton, Red found a majestically simple eighteen-karat gold fountain pen designed by Gae Aulenti, the Italian woman architect who had designed the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Jazz pronounced it just right for her father, but the only item she saw that she wanted to buy was a soft cowhide bag, called a Keepall, without any initials on it, that would break Casey of his hard-edged, initialed Vuitton luggage habit. However, it was far too expensive. But she could buy it for her father, she realized. He didn’t have any decent luggage.

“Where are you two going for a honeymoon?” she asked Red.

“Oh, Jazz, I don’t know. I’ve been absolutely everywhere five times over, and I don’t care, really and truly, if I never see any of it again.” Red turned her lovely face shyly toward Jazz. “I want to start taking riding lessons—I grew up in the heart of Houston, but I’ve never been on a horse—I want to learn how to sail a boat so I can help crew when Mike takes
the boat out, and I’m dying to get to work on the gardens—they’re the only thing at the ranch that I almost understand. In theory, all Texas gals can tell a weed from a flower. So I don’t think I could
stand
to have to go on a honeymoon. Once in any lifetime is enough. Is that awful of me? I haven’t actually told Mike yet. There’s so much we haven’t talked about, because how could we until we actually knew we were going to get married? What do you think he’ll say?”

“He’ll be overjoyed,” Jazz said, putting the bag down on the counter where she’d found it. Her father wouldn’t have to take the hated vacations he had never taken, she thought. If she had needed any additional proof that Red was the perfect woman for him—and she hadn’t—this was it. “Why did you wait so long to decide?” she asked curiously.

“I suspect Mike thought he was too old for me. There’s a twenty-six-year difference.”

“Twenty-four, I do believe.”

“Oh, all right. Twenty-four. That’s the trouble with old friends … they know to the minute how old you are. But, sweetie pie, the only wisdom I have to pass on to you is that age is relative as well as irrelevant, particularly in Mike’s case.”

“I don’t even know when you’re getting married,” Jazz said, surprised. “Have you gotten around to talking about that, at least?”

“We thought after Christmas, when your sisters and their kids will be gone, so that it wouldn’t be a big deal, just us and you and Casey and a judge, of course.”

“Casey?”

“Mike wants him to be his best man, and naturally I want you to be my maid of honor, and that’s all. Afterwards, we’ll go to the Swallows for drinks and the El Adobe for dinner. No fuss.”

Jazz frowned. How could it be a real wedding without a production, without problems, without confusion?

“It’s exactly what I want,” Red said, understanding her thoughts. “Believe me, I’ve gone the other
route and it’s hell. Whatever is low and unworthy in people is brought to the surface by a wedding. They play out all their long-hidden family resentments in fighting about things like the color of the tablecloth or what kind of cake to have. As for what to wear—it’s out-and-out warfare, like
The Godfather
, only with women.”

“I’m going to shoot Mel’s wedding … I’ll keep your words in mind. Sort of a Freudian subtext … the inner hostile meaning of the marriage ceremony.”

“Oh, Jazz, don’t.”

“I was kidding. I’ll know what to avoid, that’s all. Shooting Mel’s wedding will be sheer pleasure for me, because it’s all about people I love. Come on, Red, I still haven’t accomplished anything.”

Jazz and Red took an escalator down one level to Tiffany’s, which glittered so much that they didn’t even enter. Across from the jewelry store, a storefront painted dark green, in the style of a small, old-fashioned English inn, beckoned. It was a men’s shop called Rosenthal Truitt. Jazz scrutinized the window carefully.

“This is it!” she exclaimed, as soon as she spotted a pair of suspenders made of braided leather.

Inside she bought the suspenders for Pete, and a belt in the same leather in case he wanted to switch, and three sturdy plaid flannel shirts. She pounced on brass-and-beechwood shoe trees for Sam, buying him four pairs. “Just the right amount to spend, suitably impersonal, yet totally useful,” Jazz announced. “It’s a triumph of exactly the right thing. And did you ever hear of a man buying himself shoe trees, or a woman, for that matter?”