Rococo (4 page)

“I just got over a bad cold.” Capri is always getting over something. Her hair, skin, and wool cardigan are the color of a peanut shell. Though not officially sickly, she has the look of someone who is battling an infirmity, which gives her the blackest under-eye circles I’ve ever seen on someone who doesn’t live in a tree. She has been this way all her life. In fact, in all of high school she never took phys ed. The handwritten excuse notes from her doctor were legendary. He started with diseases that begin with an
A
(asthma) when Capri was in eighth grade, and by senior year she hit the
Z
’s (zinc deficiency). Capri has never lived outside her parents’ home, so she seems much younger than she is. It’s like when you keep a banana out of the sun—it doesn’t ripen. Capri is a forty-year-old green banana.

Capri has a heart-shaped face and a short neck (an unfortunate combination—it’s like an egg cradled in a spoon). On the plus side, she has long sensuous fingers and a plush caboose. She’s so nearsighted that she is legally blind without her glasses. Even though she wears fashionable frames (in our youth Capri wore cat-eye glasses with real diamond chips on the wings), there’s only so much a doctor can do with lenses as thick as ashtrays. Poor Capri always looks as though she is peering through the wall of an aquarium. She tried contact lenses, but she has recessive tear ducts (a painful condition, her mother is always quick to remind me), so she can’t wear them. I am one of the rare people who has seen Capri without her eyeglasses, and while she is no Claudia Cardinale, it’s an improvement. I kiss her on the cheek.

“Mom made shepherd’s pie,” Capri says by way of greeting.

“Great. I need some nutritional gravitas.”

“Well, as casseroles go, it has it.” Capri takes my jacket and hangs it in the hall closet, whose door has an artful trompe l’oeil column painted on it.

I started coming to dinner at the Mandelbaums’ once a week after Capri’s father died, and like all small-town habits, this one stuck, and now it’s a standing engagement. I never call ahead of time; if it’s Monday, I’m at the Mandelbaums’ for supper.

No matter how many times I stand in this foyer, with its winding staircase covered in beige Berber carpeting, hemmed by the banister lacquered to a shiny black, lit by the Baccarat crystal chandelier, and with a round needlepoint area rug in pale peach and soft gray silk and wool, I always see something new. The lighting is soft and golden; all the chandeliers have dimmer switches and bulbs that twinkle like actual candlelight. A chandelier is to a room what diamond-drop earrings are to a beautiful woman—the perfect accessory.

“If I had to choose one thing that makes or breaks a room, it’s the chandelier. It’s the crowning glory of good design.” I catch myself pontificating. “I’m sorry. I sound like a windbag, but if you had seen some of the crap I saw today—”

“I don’t mind.” Capri threads her arm through mine as we walk to the back of the house.

Capri’s father, the late Sy Mandelbaum, was like a second father to me. Following my graduation from Parsons School of Design, he hired me to do the window treatments and carpets in all his banks (by that time he had several). He not only trusted me with his commercial properties, he hired me to do his home. When the Mandelbaums entertained, Sy would brag about my work. Suddenly, I had more jobs than I could handle with clients who could afford the very best. This house became my own Kips Bay Bazaar. Luckily, Aurelia loves change, so I’ve never really stopped decorating this house. I’m still futzing with it; I’m about to redecorate the solarium, which overlooks the pool out back.

Castle Mandelbaum, as I call it, was built in 1960 in the French Norman style. It sits atop a hill on five acres of manicured lawn. The imposing limestone tower and cupola can be seen from several miles away. I encouraged Sy to put in a gate and a circular drive to conjure the carriage stop of the past, thus adding to the house’s old world charm. I found an ironworker from Germany who made an imposing gate using the letter
M
as a motif. Sy watched the installation in awe. “I love an expert,” he used to say. We even had the contractor install heated pipes under the concrete in the driveway, which was treated to look like brick. No nasty falls when you come to visit
this
house in the winter. The driveway is always clear of ice and snow.

Inside, the rooms are well proportioned, with tall, wide windows and vaulted ceilings, creating a feeling of openness. This is the perfect home for Aurelia, the leading art collector in New Jersey, who can afford the Monet and Cy Twombly paintings that adorn her walls, and has the space and light to display them properly.

I survey the rooms as we pass them. Damn, I’m good. Pastel colors wash through this house like brushstrokes on a Degas. As far as the eye can see, it’s a celebration of all things
français;
they are cleverly tucked in corners or displayed boldly front and center.

There is a delicate hand-painted
armoire de mariage
in the sitting room, filled with glorious linens embroidered with the Mandelbaum family crest. In the kitchen a set of hand-carved cherrywood
buffet a deux corps
is filled with pottery from Marseille.

The taffeta window treatments are so chic you could wear them to a fancy dress ball. Room to room you will find Austrian-style shades, floor-length balloon draperies in shimmering silks of pewter gray, soft rose, and mauve. I sewed panels of off-white silk onto either end of the draperies; these mirror the window panes, giving a crisp look and definition to the billowing silk. The draperies look like fluted ribbon candy when they’re down and become jazzy ruffles when raised to let the sun in.

The mantels throughout the house are carved white marble, and we hunted down oversized antique mirrors to place over them. One of the most delightful pieces I found was from the going-out-of-business sale at Hess’s department store in Philadelphia. If you look closely at the smoky blond glass, you can see the words “Milady Chapeaux” written in swirly letters. How lovely the mirror looks as it reflects Aurelia’s grand
lit à l’impériale,
with the handmade lace canopy and matching duvet. Sy was claustrophobic, so there were no canopy beds allowed prior to his death; Aurelia enjoys this one now without guilt.

What fun we had placing the
objets artisanaux:
lovely miniature botanical prints displayed on wooden easels on the mantels, and glistening ceramic urns, most from Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, with quirky French sayings on them. My favorite?
Une poule qui marche de travers ne pondra jamais d’oeufs,
which means “A chicken that walks sideways has no eggs.”

Going French is all about regal touches set against antique wood grains and fabrics. Touches of gold leaf and polished silver are used sparingly but with great effect throughout the house. We placed the occasional silver flask with a silk tassel dangling from the handle on a side table. A silver bookmark denotes a favorite poem in a leather-bound collection by Rimbaud. It’s the small details that bring warmth and not simply ornamentation to a room: a
salière
filled with pungent lavender seeds or a
verrier
full of Renaissance pie plates provides elegance and whimsy.

The kitchen is done in cherrywood (the farm table and chairs were imported) with a tile-lined hearth that is deep enough to bake bread in—Aurelia loves to cook pizza in it. When there’s a party, we always wind up in the kitchen. Aurelia stands at the sink. She turns and smiles when we enter the kitchen.

“B, sit down and put your feet up. Capri, please toss the salad.”

“Your favorite,” I say, handing Aurelia the pie.

“You’re a doll,” she replies, greeting me with a big hug.

Aurelia Castone Mandelbaum has all the stature her daughter does not. She is around five feet eight with an hourglass figure that is holding firm—a feat for a woman in her seventies, she will be the first to tell you. Her red hair (which used to be chestnut brown) also keeps her looking youthful. She has been the organist at the Fatima church since she was a girl; her size-eleven feet come in handy when she pumps the giant pedals to send sound through the bellows.

Aurelia is the richest woman in the state of New Jersey. By the end of his life, Sy owned a string of banks, which Aurelia eventually sold to Chase Manhattan, retaining control as a major stockholder. Folks were skeptical, but Aurelia proved that she wasn’t just serving tea at the board meetings all those years; she was listening intently to the proceedings. The stock for the company has split so many times the smallest shareholder has walked away with a bucket of cash from the dividends. I know Sy would be proud of his bubola.

“I hope you’re both hungry.” Aurelia lifts an enormous Pyrex dish from the oven with her Toile de Jouy oven mitts. “I heard Arlene Francis talking on television about a dish she serves to guests at her New York penthouse on opening nights, and it sounded divine. I thought I’d give it a try.”

ARLENE FRANCIS’S SHEPHERD’S PIE

Serves 48

Two 28-ounce cans crushed tomatoes

1⁄2 cup Worcestershire sauce

1 cup flour

1 cup water

1⁄2 cup shortening

2 cups chopped onions

1 cup diced red pepper

5 cloves garlic, minced

6 pounds ground beef

Salt and pepper to taste

1 cup sliced mushrooms

10 pounds white potatoes, peeled

1 pint hot milk

Butter

Paprika

In a large pot, mix the tomatoes and Worcestershire sauce and bring to a boil. Make a paste with the flour and water in a small bowl, and add to the pot. Stir until thickened at medium heat. In a skillet, heat the shortening, then lightly brown the onions, pepper, garlic, and meat at medium to high heat. Add salt and pepper. Add the meat mixture to the pot and cook over medium heat until browned. Stir in the mushrooms and cook over low heat. Meanwhile, boil the potatoes in salted water about 20 minutes. Drain. Using a mixer or by hand, whip the potatoes with hot milk and butter until fluffy. Spoon the meat mixture into two 9 × 13-inch pans, greased with a little shortening. Spread the whipped potatoes over the meat. Sprinkle with paprika. Bake in a 350°F. oven for 20 minutes, until the potatoes are lightly browned.

“I made so much I brought a pan over to the rectory,” Aurelia continues.

“It would have been cheaper to take Father out to dinner,” Capri says, pouring wine into our glasses.

“Why’s that?” I ask pleasantly.

“When Ma dropped off the shepherd’s pie, she left a check for one hundred thousand dollars for the church renovation.”

“Who came up with that figure?” I hear my voice break. There has been lots of talk about renovating the church, including a big article in the diocesan newspaper,
Feel the Spirit,
in which Father Porp was quoted as saying that the people of Our Lady of Fatima Church needed renewal in their surroundings and their souls. I couldn’t sleep after I read it. I’ve been bursting with ideas about how to redo the church since I was a boy. I love my dusty old church, but the Gothic design with its heavy pediments, scrollwork, and stiff pews have never matched the spiritual heights I feel during the Mass. I want a crack at giving the interior a fresh, new design that will draw people in and lift their weary souls.

“Father says it’s a gut renovation. That’s pricey.” Aurelia shrugs.

I take a deep breath. “It’s my dream to redesign the church.” This is not easy for me, to admit my highest dream to Toot, and now to Aurelia and Capri. I feel as exposed as I did when I lost my swim trunks in the diving contest at OLOF Park in 1941. The opportunity to renovate my church would mean everything to me. It means so much to me my voice squeaks.

“Oh, Father knows that.” Aurelia smiles. “I made sure he knew my feelings. You are the Billy Baldwin of OLOF; the arbiter of taste. If not you . . . who?” Aurelia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Aurelia.”

Aurelia spoons the shepherd’s pie onto a plate and sets it before me. “Go ahead, taste.”

I take a bite. “Delicious,” I pronounce to her great delight. Perhaps it tastes so good because it comes on the heels of such good news. “Arlene Francis triumphs!”

“Hmm. I hope it wasn’t Dinah Shore. You know, when the television is on, I’m knitting or baking or something and I don’t really pay attention.”

“To Dinah Shore, then!” I raise my glass, and we toast Dinah.

“Wherever it came from, I’ll make a batch for your birthday party.”

“You’re all in cahoots, and I want it to end right here,” I say politely. “There is not going to be a party.”

“Oh, why not, B? Your sister throws the best parties.” Capri butters a roll.

“Toot said it’s planned down to the rose soap petals in the guest powder room,” Aurelia says. “I just don’t know what to give you. Hmm.” She taps her chin mischievously.

“Nothing. And I really don’t need a wallet.”

“No, it’s a big year. And in a couple of months Capri will also be turning forty.”

“Mom.” Capri blushes.

“I know, it’s a number to choke on. But believe me, when you’re seventy-three, you remember forty as an age when you could still do backbends. I’m going to do a joint gift for you two. I’d love to throw a wedding.”

Capri and I look at each other, horrified.

“Did you have anything else in mind?” I ask softly.

“I was thinking of sending you two kids to Italy.”

Capri’s eyes widen, and the thick lenses of her glasses make her pupils look like black golf balls. “I’d love that.”

“Well . . .” I feel cornered, but I don’t want to be rude. Capri and I both know we’ve tried to rub the wooden sticks of passion together, but all we got were splinters. We’ve tried here at home and even on the road, thinking a change of venue might ignite mutual ardor. We went to Toronto for the Our Lady of Mount Carmel Festival, to New York City for the 1964 World’s Fair, we even took a bus trip to Colonial Williamsburg with the Sons of Italy. We’ve gone near and far hoping the backdrop would change the facts. But no box lunch, carnival ride, or glassblowing demonstration could bring us together in the romantic sense.