The Last Mrs. Parrish(22)
“Of course.” They walked a bit farther, and Daphne indicated a door on the left. “When you come out, turn right and keep walking to the kitchen. I’ll put the tea on.”
Amber entered the first-floor powder room and was stunned. Every room in the house offered a staggering reminder of Jackson Parrish’s great wealth. With its polished black walls and silver picture-frame wainscoting, it was the epitome of quiet opulence. A waterfall slab of marble was the focus of the room, and on top of it sat a marble vessel sink. Amber looked around in wonder once again. Everything original, custom-made. What would it be like to have a custom-made life, she wondered?
She washed her hands and took one last look in the mirror, a tall, beveled piece of glass set in a frame that looked like rippled silver leaves. As she walked the length of the corridor to the kitchen, she slowed to look at the art on the walls. Some she recognized from her exhaustive reading and Met courses—a Sisley and a stunning Boudin. If these were the real thing, and they probably were, the paintings alone were worth a small fortune. And here they were, hanging in a little-trafficked hallway.
As she entered the kitchen, she saw that tea and a plate of fruit sat waiting on the island.
“Mug or cup?” Daphne asked, standing in front of an open cabinet door.
The shelves of the cabinet looked as if they could have been a display for a luxury kitchen showroom. Amber imagined someone using a ruler to measure an exact distance between each cup and glass. Everything lined up perfectly, and everything matched. It was disconcerting in some strange way, and she found herself mutely staring, mesmerized by the symmetry.
“Amber?” Daphne said.
“Oh. Mug, please.” She sat on one of the cushioned stools.
“Do you take milk?”
“Yes, please,” Amber said.
Daphne swung the refrigerator door open, and Amber stared again. The contents were lined up with military precision, the tallest at the rear and all labels facing front. The absolute precision of Daphne’s home was off-putting. It felt to Amber like more than a desire for a neat home and more like an obsession, a compulsion. She remembered Sally’s account of Daphne’s time in a sanitarium after Tallulah’s birth. Perhaps there had been more going on than just postpartum depression, she thought.
Daphne sat opposite Amber and poured their tea. “So, we have just two weeks before the big night. You’ve been amazing. I’ve felt such a wonderful synergy with you. We both have so much of our hearts invested in this.”
“I’ve loved every minute of it. I can’t wait until the fund-raiser. It’s going to be a huge success.”
Daphne took a sip of tea and placed the mug on the counter between her hands. Looking at Amber, she said, “I’d like to do something to show my appreciation for all your hard work.”
Amber tilted her head and gave Daphne a questioning look.
“I hope you’ll let me buy you a dress for the fund-raiser,” Daphne said.
Amber had hoped this was going to happen, but she had to play it carefully. “Oh no,” she said. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
“Please. I’d really love to. It’s my way of saying thank you.”
“I don’t know. It feels like you’re paying me, and I didn’t work on this to get paid. I wanted to do it.” Amber smiled inwardly at her brilliant show of humility.
“You mustn’t think of it as payment. Think of it as gratitude for your immense help and support,” Daphne said as she pushed back a blond wave, her diamond ring flashing brightly.
“I don’t know. I feel sort of funny having you spend money on me.”
“Well,” Daphne said and paused. “How would you feel about borrowing something of mine, then?”
Amber could have kicked herself for protesting too much, but she guessed borrowing a dress was the next best thing. “Gee, I hadn’t thought of that. I would feel better if you weren’t spending your money.” As if this woman didn’t have millions to burn.
“Great.” Daphne stood up from the stool. “Come upstairs with me, and we’ll look through my closet.”
They climbed the stairs together, and Amber admired the Dutch masters on the wall.
“You have magnificent artwork. I could spend hours looking at it.”
“You’re more than welcome to. Are you interested in art? Jackson is absolutely passionate about it,” Daphne said as they reached the landing.
“Well, I’m no art expert, but I do love museums,” Amber replied.
“Jackson too. He’s a board member of the Bishops Harbor Art Center. Here we are,” Daphne said, leading her into a large room—given its size, it could hardly be called a walk-in closet—filled with racks of clothing lined up in perfect, parallel rows. Every piece of clothing was in a transparent garment bag, and two walls were lined with shelves that held shoes of all styles, arranged by color. Built-in drawers on a third wall held sweaters, one each, with a small see-through panel to identify them. At one end of the room stood a three-way mirror and a pedestal. The lighting was bright but flattering, without the harshness of department-store fitting rooms.
“Wow,” Amber couldn’t help herself from remarking. “This is something.”
Daphne waved her hand dismissively. “We attend a lot of functions. I used to go shopping for each one, and Jackson said I was wasting too much time. He started having things sent to the house for me to look at.” She was leading Amber to a rack near the back when suddenly a young woman came walking into the room.