Alternate Side(64)
“It definitely worked,” said a broad-shouldered man who Nora thought looked as though he’d played college football, and the way he said it made her think he was the person they’d tested it on.
Bebe had negotiated hard, demanding a clause that if anyone was electrocuted, the manufacturer would be responsible for damages. She was a shrewd negotiator, in part because she acted a little dim at the beginning of any discussion. The men on the other side of the table were always lulled into a false sense of supremacy until she pulled her real personality out of her pocket and laid it on the table. “I don’t want some thief whose brain is fried suing me for a million bucks,” she said of the liability clause, which the manufacturer had eventually agreed upon.
“They swore those cases were fail-safe,” Nora said, tapping a pen on her desk and staring at a list of who had the computer codes.
“Hold on,” Bebe said, and Nora heard her put the receiver down. “I want the berries, but no whipped cream. And no blackberries. Just the strawberries, raspberries, and blueberries. But no whipped cream. Last time I had to send it back.” Nora heard her lift the phone again. The ma?tre d’ must have brought her the restaurant phone, the way they did in old Hollywood movies. “You there?” Bebe said. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. That necklace is sitting in my home safe.”
“What?”
“It has sentimental value. It’s the last piece Norman ever gave me. I was going to that black-tie thing at The Pierre, and just for one night I wanted to wear the real thing. Not that any of those people would know. There was a woman there with a diamond as big as a Ping-Pong ball on her one hand, and I can tell you that it was no more a diamond than I’m Marilyn Monroe.”
“That was months ago. All that time we’ve had a paste copy in that display case?”
“I told you years ago, no one uses paste anymore. And my copies are the best copies. I’m surprised anyone even noticed. When I’m home from Palm Beach I’ll put the real one back.”
“Bebe, we’ve been telling visitors that what they’re seeing is the star of Kashmir.”
“And they never even noticed the difference, right? So who cares? If nobody can tell the difference between real and fake, who cares if fake is what you’re showing?”
PR NEWSWIRE: Attention Local Outlets
MUSEUM BEGINS SEARCH FOR PRESIDENT
The Museum of Jewelry will be searching for a new president with the resignation of its current leader.
Nora Nolan, who has overseen the museum since its opening five years ago, will leave at the end of the year, according to Bebe Pearl, the chair of the board.
“Nora has been the heart and soul of my fabulous brainchild,” Mrs. Pearl said from her home in Palm Beach. “She’s also become one of my closest friends. She will never stop being part of the Museum of Jewelry.”
Mrs. Pearl endowed the museum and donated nearly all of her extensive collection of fine jewelry to it after the death of her husband, Norman, a real estate developer whose personal wealth was estimated by Forbes at slightly over $3 billion. There was skepticism in the museum community about what was often seen as a vanity project, but the museum has been unexpectedly successful under Ms. Nolan’s leadership. No reason was given for her resignation.
Friends, Andrew, Josh, and I are having a small private funeral for Jack. But we would welcome some time with all of you at our home, and will be receiving visitors from 6 to 9 P.M. this Tuesday. Please come by and share some stories about their father with the boys.
Fondly,
Sherry
Rumor had it that Jack Fisk had hanged himself. The funeral director had made the mistake of using the word suddenly in the paid obituary, which was technically accurate but in recent years had become a kind of covert shorthand for suicide. There was speculation that the remorse over what he’d done to Ricky, or anxiety over the outcome of the case against him, had broken him. But Nora knew that Jack had as little of remorse in what Sherry called his emotional tool kit as any man alive, and Linda Lessman had heard through the courthouse grapevine that there had been some deal made, that Jack would not be criminally prosecuted, that he could even continue practicing law. Ricky’s account of what had happened now apparently dovetailed roughly with his.
“I wonder how much that cost?” Linda had said.
“I never even knew the guy had a bad heart,” Charlie said.
“I didn’t think he actually had a heart,” said Nora.
“Enough,” Charlie said.
Charlie believed that Jack had died of sorrow. Nora thought he died of bile. Maybe it was a chemical reaction of the two, like the baking-soda-and-vinegar volcanoes the kids had made in school. In any event, it was certainly natural causes. Whenever Nora imagined disaster, it was always dramatic: the plane on which they were flying to Bermuda plummeting into the cerulean sea, a cab rocketing around the corner and sending her flying while her children watched in horror. When the twins were small and she was carrying them she would always imagine stumbling; she endlessly rehearsed spinning, falling, cushioning them so that her own body took the full weight. But the crises were never what you thought, always more pedestrian: Ollie sliding down the banister and breaking his collarbone, Charlie complaining that she’d served bad shrimp and then having to have his appendix removed. Jack had apparently told Sherry he didn’t feel well, took three Advil, lay down in the den, and died sometime between the evening news and the end of the Yankees game, with The Wall Street Journal open on his chest.