Delta sister, sang her praises throughout Buckhead, just outside of Atlanta. Frazier sold Darcy a large equine painting by an English artist who was in her thirties. The cost five years ago was $17,000 and Frazier promised the hesitant Darcy she would never regret this purchase. The value of that same work had skyrocketed to $185,000 at last appraisal.
Mandy read her letter from Frazier. It said “Thank you. Love, Fraiz.” She folded the letter and walked out of her office into the main room of the three-roomed gallery. She drew alongside Frazier and studied “Sir Teddy.”
“You’re not going to sell that painting.”
“Ben Marshalls are easy to sell even in a depressedmarket. You know that. Like Herring, Stubbs, Munnings, Bonheur. There are some artists who are golden.”
“I know all that, thank you very much.” Mandy half-smiled. “You aren’t selling that painting, because you’re in love with it.”
“Well … I guess I am.”
“Are you sure you want to work today? You’re still coughing. I don’t mind running the show.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather be here than at home. My bronchitis medicine is helping. I threw that damned other crap in the trash can. I’ll tell you this: don’t you ever mess around with heroin or opium or morphine. They’re the same, I think. I mean, they’re different but aren’t they all derived from the poppy?” Mandy shrugged and Frazier continued, “I was so low, black as the insides of a goat.”
“Still?”
“No, but
I
rock and roll a little bit.”
“I just read your letter.”
“Shorn of all literary flourish.” Frazier put her arm around Mandy’s shoulders. “But I meant it.”
“Will you ever tell me what the surprise was in your will?”
“If I live through the next few months I’ll tell you everything.”
Mandy’s eyes widened in fear. “Are you still sick? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it quite that way. Come on over here—let’s sit in my office. I’d better tell you exactly what I’ve done, because there’s going to be hell to pay. Big time.”
Frazier’s office was painted a soft yellow, the yellow that the Metropolitan Museum of Art often uses on its walls. The two sat on the 1930’s overstuffed sofa. The office, simple but sensuous, with lots of curving lines,betrayed a secret side of Frazier. Most people would have expected her office to be an homage to Hepplewhite, Sheridan, or Chippendale, a bow in the direction of the eighteenth century.
“Shoot,” Mandy said nervously. “No, wait. You’ve experienced a catharsis. You’re selling everything and moving to Hawaii. Actually, for you it would be the south of France. Lake Como, or New Zealand. Am I right?”
“About everything except New Zealand. Beautiful but so far away. Argentina.”
Mandy fell back on the sofa. “I knew it. I knew you’d leave.”
“No, I just meant if I were to go it wouldn’t be to New Zealand. I’m not going anywhere, although I might be run out of town.”
“Frazier, what did you do? I mean, what can someone do who is full of tubes and flat on her back in the hospital?”
“You told me to write letters to Tomorrow.”
“I got one. Thank you back at you.”
“Uh, I did write letters to Tomorrow. I wrote everyone and told them the truth about myself and what I believe to be the truth about them.
I
begged my brother and Billy to change their ways. I told my mother exactly what I think of her—I emphasize
exactly.
I bequeathed the same favor, different flavor, on Ann Haviland. I wrote my father an exhaustive letter about him, Mom, Carter, and myself. Who else? Auntie Ruru, whom I adore, and Kenny Singer. I opened the whole can of worms.”
“Jesus H. Christ on a raft.” Mandy was speechless after that. Frazier pulled herself up and opened the little refrigerator. She handed Mandy a Coke and took one forherself, grabbed the crystal old-fashioned glasses, filled them
Mandy read her letter from Frazier. It said “Thank you. Love, Fraiz.” She folded the letter and walked out of her office into the main room of the three-roomed gallery. She drew alongside Frazier and studied “Sir Teddy.”
“You’re not going to sell that painting.”
“Ben Marshalls are easy to sell even in a depressedmarket. You know that. Like Herring, Stubbs, Munnings, Bonheur. There are some artists who are golden.”
“I know all that, thank you very much.” Mandy half-smiled. “You aren’t selling that painting, because you’re in love with it.”
“Well … I guess I am.”
“Are you sure you want to work today? You’re still coughing. I don’t mind running the show.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather be here than at home. My bronchitis medicine is helping. I threw that damned other crap in the trash can. I’ll tell you this: don’t you ever mess around with heroin or opium or morphine. They’re the same, I think. I mean, they’re different but aren’t they all derived from the poppy?” Mandy shrugged and Frazier continued, “I was so low, black as the insides of a goat.”
“Still?”
“No, but
I
rock and roll a little bit.”
“I just read your letter.”
“Shorn of all literary flourish.” Frazier put her arm around Mandy’s shoulders. “But I meant it.”
“Will you ever tell me what the surprise was in your will?”
“If I live through the next few months I’ll tell you everything.”
Mandy’s eyes widened in fear. “Are you still sick? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it quite that way. Come on over here—let’s sit in my office. I’d better tell you exactly what I’ve done, because there’s going to be hell to pay. Big time.”
Frazier’s office was painted a soft yellow, the yellow that the Metropolitan Museum of Art often uses on its walls. The two sat on the 1930’s overstuffed sofa. The office, simple but sensuous, with lots of curving lines,betrayed a secret side of Frazier. Most people would have expected her office to be an homage to Hepplewhite, Sheridan, or Chippendale, a bow in the direction of the eighteenth century.
“Shoot,” Mandy said nervously. “No, wait. You’ve experienced a catharsis. You’re selling everything and moving to Hawaii. Actually, for you it would be the south of France. Lake Como, or New Zealand. Am I right?”
“About everything except New Zealand. Beautiful but so far away. Argentina.”
Mandy fell back on the sofa. “I knew it. I knew you’d leave.”
“No, I just meant if I were to go it wouldn’t be to New Zealand. I’m not going anywhere, although I might be run out of town.”
“Frazier, what did you do? I mean, what can someone do who is full of tubes and flat on her back in the hospital?”
“You told me to write letters to Tomorrow.”
“I got one. Thank you back at you.”
“Uh, I did write letters to Tomorrow. I wrote everyone and told them the truth about myself and what I believe to be the truth about them.
I
begged my brother and Billy to change their ways. I told my mother exactly what I think of her—I emphasize
exactly.
I bequeathed the same favor, different flavor, on Ann Haviland. I wrote my father an exhaustive letter about him, Mom, Carter, and myself. Who else? Auntie Ruru, whom I adore, and Kenny Singer. I opened the whole can of worms.”
“Jesus H. Christ on a raft.” Mandy was speechless after that. Frazier pulled herself up and opened the little refrigerator. She handed Mandy a Coke and took one forherself, grabbed the crystal old-fashioned glasses, filled them
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