Read Online Shades of Fortune by Stephen; Birmingham - Free Book Online Page A

walls. It was part of her sense of personal theatre. Later, of course, I would wonder if this room was an echo—an unconscious one, perhaps—of another all-white room that had once had a certain meaning in her life. But tonight this room was predominantly white and crystal, Baccarat obelisks and spheres and cubes, all sending refractions of colored light from low, glass-topped tables against the oversized white sofas and ottomans and low-backed chairs. In this white room, tonight, she even placed white cymbidium orchids in white Chinese vases. But there were also bright splashes of color from the walls: a huge blue-and-white Jack Youngerman, a varicolored Morris Louis waterfall cascading behind a sofa. “Is this a Jasper Johns?” I heard Dirk Gordon ask her as he admired the paintings.
    â€œYes, it is.”
    â€œAnd this: Imari?” as he pointed to a green and orange goldfish plate.
    â€œKutani, actually. But you’re close. You know a lot about porcelain, Dirk?”
    â€œA bit.” Mr. Dirk Gordon clearly did his homework on Brad and Mimi Moore.
    â€œMy husband and I are passionate collectors.”
    â€œAnd this must be V’soske carpet.”
    â€œWhy, yes, in fact, it is.”
    â€œThe most expensive, and the best,” he said, a young man who would make it his business to know such things, and then, “Whoever was your designer did a marvelous job.” Mimi laughed her special laugh, and said, “Thank you,” though I knew that no room in this apartment had ever known the banality of an interior decorator. Everything in this room, right down to the little cluster of Steuben glass mushrooms that had been “planted” in sphagnum moss in an antique ironstone tureen, had been selected by Brad and Mimi themselves, for Brad also has good taste. At least he appreciates fine things.
    â€œBut her rooms don’t track, ” the designer Billy Baxter once complained, a trifle pettishly perhaps, since he had nothing to do with their design. By this he meant that the rooms—the white living room, the Tiger Lily library, the French dining room—seemed at odds with one another. Today’s designers tend to pick two or three fashionable colors—at the moment, persimmon and pomegranate are two of these—and use them, with varying degrees of emphasis, throughout a house. (Remember when every smart living room had to be painted a deep mint green?) But Mimi prefers to let each room create its own experience. “After all,” she argues sensibly enough, “a person can’t be in more than one room at a time.” This approach gives her house a certain sense of quirkiness and playfulness.
    Mimi moves around her sparkling living room now, trying to sparkle herself. But, of course, her mother’s little explosion has left the evening with a taut edge, and the sparkle can’t help but feel a little forced. And so, one by one, after a polite enough interval has passed, Mimi’s guests begin their thank-yous, their good-byes, and leave.
    â€œStay and have a quick nightcap with me, Badger,” Mimi says to her son. And, when all the others have gone, she leads him back into the library, where Felix has set out a decanter of Ar-magnac and thimble-shaped glasses.
    â€œYes, a brandy,” she says to young Brad’s offer, and she flings herself in her long white sheath deep into a green leather sofa. Only then does she permit herself to unwind, let down her guard, and let the angry tears come. “Oh, shit, shit, shit! ” she says through clenched teeth, making tight fists of her hands and pounding the sofa cushions with them. “Shits! All of them! Why did I even bother?” Badger hands her her glass, and she downs the contents with a gulp, then holds out the glass to be refilled.
    â€œJust … shits! ” she cries. Tears stream down her cheeks, but there are no sobs.
    â€œOkay, Mom,” her son says