Rococo (27 page)

That this man believes he has done the women of New Jersey a favor by servicing them sexually in their times of need makes me want to throw up. And they say
I
have a big ego. The decorating world has nothing on Lonnie Falcone. “Okay, okay, whatever, Lonnie. I just think as long as the current arrangement is working for you and Toot why change things?”

Lonnie looks away. At certain angles he looks like Robert Taylor when he was young and married to Barbara Stanwyck; at other times he resembles a hairy baboon. “You’re right. Status quo is working.”

“I don’t mean to get back to business, but can you think of anyone else I can ask for money to get this renovation done?”

“You know, B, to be perfectly honest, the church is not the place people put their money anymore. They give direct to old folks’ homes and disabilities and such. The church seems to have enough dough, you know?”

I ring Aurelia’s doorbell, which is a first—usually I’m expected and walk right in. I saw that her car was in the garage, so I know she’s home. After a few moments, she opens the door. “Can we talk?” I say politely.

“I’m not giving you the money, B.”

“What is your problem?” I demand. I’m empowered as soon as I realize she’s not going to give me the money, so there’s no reason to be less than perfectly honest with her. “You married a Jew in 1929. What’s wrong with your daughter loving a Mexican in 1970?”

“I will not discuss my daughter with you. She is dead to me.”

“You’re a horse’s ass!” Aurelia steps back, stunned. “Yes! A big fat horse’s ass! Let me tell you about Pedro Alarcon, because all you see is a poor man from a foreign country. I could be describing our ancestors from the Gulf of Genoa, but that’s too obvious. Pedro is one of the most devout people I have ever met—and remember, I served Mass for Cardinal Cushing on his visit to OLOF in 1954, so I know devout. Pedro is humble and quiet and talented. And he loves your daughter. This is something she wanted and wished for. Capri has lived under your shadow for forty years.”

“My shadow? I knew she wasn’t a party girl, so I pushed her out from my shadow. I didn’t keep her there!”

“You tried to marry her off to me, knowing it would never happen.” Aurelia tries to protest. I stop her. “Uh-huh! Yes! Even though you pretended to want us married, you were thrilled when it didn’t happen, because she would be here to take care of you. That’s not what Sy wanted for you or her. In fact, Sy wanted you to remarry—”

“Never! One God, one man, one life!”

“That’s a nice sentiment to put on a coin, but it’s a bitch to live.”

“It’s my truth!” Aurelia thumps her chest.

“You kept your daughter in this house like a prisoner. I really believe now, when I look back on things, you had me redecorate this joint so many times so Capri would think she had moved. You wanted her to have a sense that something was going on here when, in fact, it was just a way to trap her in your world. Maybe the wallpaper changed, but they were still the same four walls, and the same mother inside to care for.”

“You’re wrong!” Aurelia bellows.

“And now to the matter of your millions. What will become of them when you disinherit your daughter?”

“I have plans for my money.”

“Sy always stood by his word. I think he would be very angry to know that you promised the money to the church and then pulled the plug. After all, you rebuilt the Temple Beth-El in Oakhurst. He would have wanted you to do the same for your own house of worship.”

“Things changed.”

“For the better! You loved your husband and he loved you—and it’s astonishing to those of us who witnessed that love to watch you take that away from your own daughter.”

“He’s not right for her.”

“You haven’t given him a chance.”

“He doesn’t deserve a chance. They’re sleeping together and they’re not married!”

“Is that what you’re upset about?”

“No, I’m more upset that he’s a Mexican!”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.” I take a deep breath.

“No, we’re not. I’m home, Mom.” We both look to see Capri standing in the doorway. “Pedro broke up with me.” The vibrant girl with the soft contact lenses is gone, and back is the frump in Coke-bottle eyeglasses.

Aurelia takes a deep breath. She looks at her daughter first with relief, but within seconds the walls go up. “I knew you’d come to your senses,” she says coldly.

“I’m really nervous about showing you this job,” Two says as we drive to Lina Aldo’s house in Brielle.

“Relax. She called me and told me that she was thrilled.”

“I can’t thank you enough for giving me a chance to design a room for one of your clients. A bedroom, no less. I really appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Two is right. It was a vote of confidence to hand over the reins when it comes to a favorite client. But to be honest, I’ve been so worried about losing funding for the church that I never would have been able to give Lina the attention she deserves.

The charming Cape Cod sits back on Windsor Avenue like a gray bird. Inspired by the black-and-white birch trees in the backyard, I used a palette of lavender, silver, and deep maroon for the interior. The only adjustment I asked her to make on the exterior was to paint the casement portion of the windows deep burgundy instead of black, and the front door burgundy instead of white to give a hint of what’s to come inside.

“Come in, come in!” Lina greets us at the door. “My gosh, when I see you together, you look like father and son.”

“How is that possible?” I reply. “My hair is coal black and he’s a brownette.”

“It’s the face,” Lina insists.

“Everyone tells me I look just like you.” Two punches my arm.

Lina wears a burgundy silk blouse and a deep navy blue skirt. Her white hair is done is a simple pageboy. A great decorator pays attention to the client’s personal taste and appearance. One look and you know her favorite color. Her style will dictate the things she likes around her. If she’s ornate and wears lots of jewelry, that bolt of flocked wallpaper you picked up for a song at the Pierre Frey sale has her name on it. If she’s a simple girl, she’ll love early American or Shaker and cozy fabrics in cotton and linen—forget damask and silk taffeta. In a sense, a home is the landscape of a person’s style. The surroundings should enhance what is already true about them. When I first met Lina, she wore a lovely burgundy-and-dusty-grape bouclé coat. That fabric, with the cue from nature in the form of birch trees, provided the palette I used in her home.

I did the living room, den, and hallway walls in dove gray with white trim and installed wall-to-wall carpeting in a slightly deeper shade of gray to give the small rooms a feeling of spaciousness. Lina is a classic, so I used tone-on-tone plum (Brunschwig & Fils #54) matelasse on the furniture, and the occasional stripe on the throw pillows—no busy prints anywhere. I kept everything trim and classic: no ruffles, beading, fringe, or ruching—clean lines only.

I convinced Lina to blow out the wall between her bedroom and bathroom to make a true master suite, with a row of windows along the back of the house; I allowed Two to oversee the contractor, and instructed him to come up with the bedroom décor.

I follow my nephew back to the bedroom. The first thing I notice are the window treatments. Two designed floor-to-ceiling draperies in a white dupioni silk, which opens up the room with light. The bed faces the entrance door, with nightstands on either side. A writing desk sits in front of the windows, and a chaise peeks out from an alcove that connects the bedroom to the walk-in closet.

“This is magnificent. Tell me how you came up with the design.”

“Well, now that Lina is alone, she spends a lot of time in her room, so we put in a small desk for correspondence and a chaise longue.” Two points to a unit of open shelves on the wall opposite the bed, where books, photographs in silver frames, and a small Deco vanity mirror are arranged. He talks fast, clearly proud of his work. “Let me turn on the low lamps for you.” He flips the switch on two matching pewter lamps on the nightstands. The custom-made duvet of lavender satin trimmed in white is old Hollywood. The chaise is covered in eggplant velvet. It’s a plum fantasy.

“Oh, Bartolomeo, Two designed a room fit for Gloria Swanson. I actually drape myself on that chaise like a fading film star,” Lina says happily.

“It has just enough Deco, doesn’t it?” I agree.

“Here is my favorite feature.” Two sounds professional. “I had to think of a way to hide the television set.”

“I hate TVs out in the open,” Lina says.

“So where is it?” I look around the room.

Two goes to the étagère and points to a large oil painting hung in the center of the unit. It’s a pastoral scene of green fields and a farmhouse, very soothing. “Watch,” Two says. “It opens like a book.” He pulls the painting toward him, swinging it open. Behind the painting is a television set.

“Isn’t that brilliant?” Lina marvels. “During the day I close the painting, and at night, when I want to watch television, I open it.”

“Great idea!” I give my nephew a quick hug. “I love it!” I couldn’t be more proud if Two and I were father and son.

On the drive home, Two says, “Unc, I really want to work for you full-time.”

“I’d love to have you,” I tell him. Who knew I would love this mentoring business. I thought I’d hate working with others, but Christina and Two have changed my mind.

“Really?”

“After you graduate from Parsons or whatever design school you wish. You need a degree, and then you must be ASID.”

“If you promise me that I can work under you, I will absolutely go back to school,” he promises.

“You’ll always have a job with the House of B.”

While I appear to be unflappable, the truth is I am absolutely sick to my stomach about Capri and Pedro’s breakup and the events it has triggered. It’s not easy to raise money quickly, but God knows I’m trying.

After I went to Lonnie, I called Zetta Montagna to coordinate fund-raisers with the K of C. I groveled and went back to Father Porp, throwing myself on his mercy. After much begging, he agreed to go to the bishop, although Father is so angry at me that he can barely speak. I told him to put his feelings about me aside and think about his parish.

I am not above raising the money myself. I know many wealthy people, but, by and large, they’re Episcopalian and they give to their own church. Short-term, I need twenty-five thousand dollars to keep Rufus, Pedro, and the crew working. Long-term, we need an additional hundred thousand dollars to finish the job. The ambitious Wall of Water is almost as much again. It might as well be a million dollars. I’ve managed to keep my pleas for funds quiet, hoping I won’t have to tell Rufus we will soon be broke.

Pedro, poor, dear Pedro, is sulking around the church like the Hunchback of Notre Dame with his beloved Esmeralda. If you need proof that his love for Capri was true, all you have to do is look at him. I worry he’ll slip with the cutting blade while he’s working on the windows just to put himself out of his misery. Rufus promises to keep an eye on him.

When I arrive home Toot is waiting for me by the garage. She has borrowed Anthony’s pickup truck.

“What’s up, sis? Dear God, you’re thin.”

“I know. First time I lost weight in my life without dieting. It’s all this running around. Now I know why the mistresses are always thinner than the wives. A
comare
is always on the go: running to meet him here or there while the wives sit home eating cannolis and wait.” She points to a large crate in the back of the truck, marked
BY ORDER OF THE QUEEN.
“My friend Dahlia at the post office called. I told her you were on a job, so I went over and picked this up for you. What is it?”

“The children of Fatima.” Toot helps me lift it out of the back of the truck. “I’m so blue, Toot. Where did it all go wrong?”

“Come on. It’s only money. You’ve come too far. Make those bishops and cardinals give you the dough.”

“Father said he’d go to them, but he doesn’t think they’ll help. Father wants to see me fail.”

“What an idiot. It’s
his
parish. He could get the money. Father Porp is a caddy for the bishop. Everybody knows it.”

“Well, he’s not going to call in his chit for my project, believe me.”

“Makes me sick. The money is there! Look at the Vatican! Art up the yinyang! Gold everywhere! If I stood still in Saint Peter’s long enough, they’d gold-leaf my ass. Furthermore, Fatima has gotten the shaft financially. We don’t get half of the stuff the other parishes get. I don’t know why Porp doesn’t grow a pair and go to the bishop and say, ‘Hey, why does every other Catholic church in Jersey get buildings and gyms while we have to beg for a holy-water font? Where’s the justice?’ ”

“I don’t pretend to understand the financial dealings of RC Incorporated.”

Toot and I gently place the crate in my kitchen. I get out a hammer and lift the staples off the planks. The four sides of the box fall away when I lift off the lid. The statues are packed in burlap and cotton batting. Toot helps me unwrap Lucia, then Jacinta, and finally Francisco. The statues are taller than I remember, around five feet. Toot and I line them up across the kitchen floor.

“This is a sad bunch,” she clucks. “These outfits are from hunger.”

“They were poor sheepherders in Portugal. You weren’t expecting Bob Mackie, were you?”

“They need a scrub-down and new rags.”

“I’ll have Aunt Edith make them new outfits. Let’s take them up to the attic.”

Toot takes Francisco, while I take Jacinta. We climb up the stairs to the attic and place them near Monica Vitti’s chandelier. I go back down the stairs and into the kitchen where Lucia has fallen over, even though we left her upright. I lift her up, noticing she’s heavier than the other two statues. They’re made of gesso, so they’re sturdy, but not weighty like statues carved from marble. I pick Lucia up like a baby and head up the stairs.

“You know, these glass eyeballs give me the creeps,” Toot says. “They’re like escapees from the Holy House of Wax.”

“They like authentic in Italy, what can I tell you?”