The solarium and terrace were separated by a series of glass doors that created a wall when all were closed and a multitude of entrances when all were open, as they were for the party. I made my way through the pretty people and entering a vast room full of more pretty people I found myself at a political caucus for state senator Troy Appleton. For this I got a by-hand invitation? No way. There was something rotten in Casa Gran; that’s why Archy was sent for. I say this with pride, not scorn.
Troy Appleton and his wife stood in the center of the room receiving Harry Schuyler’s guests. Troy looked like Flash Gordon, all golden and smiling a million bucks worth of caps. His wife wore a chic ice-blue Paris frock that was so perfectly understated it told the world she had not only borrowed Jackie O’s hair, she had also latched on to Monsieur Givenchy. If Troy made it to Washington she would have to find herself an American couturier. I wondered if she thought Troy’s aspirations worth the compromise.
Next to the smiling couple was Troy’s dad, Thomas Appleton. Our eyes locked on each other from across the room and poor Tom reacted as if he’d just seen a ghost. He actually blinked before he forced himself to break the visual contact. Tom Appleton was not happy to see me, therefore he had not insisted on my presence. I got in line, grabbing a dollop of caviar on a sliver of toast from a passing waiter. It was the real thing.
“Hello. Glad you could make it.” Troy Appleton greeted me with a smile that must by now be hurting his face, and a handshake that attested to his prowess on a polo pony.
I’m Archy McNally.”
“Nice to know you, Archy. May I present my wife, Virginia.”
Virginia gave me her hand, which was small and soft and warm. We touched fingers. “How do you do,” Virginia said. “I like your tie and pocket square, Mr. McNally. So original.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You are most kind.”
And my father, Tom Appleton,” Troy continued his introductions.
Tom and I shook hands. “How nice to meet you, sir,” I said as if I had never laid eyes on the man before this moment.
Looking relieved, Tom said, “Same here, I’m sure. Please help yourself to a drink. If champagne is not your thing there’s a proper bar someplace in this mausoleum.”
“I will. Best of luck to you, Troy. You have my vote.”
“Well,” he said modestly, ‘it hasn’t come to that yet. We’re still testing the waters.”
Was this a fund-raiser? Was I expected to write a check? Sorry, pal, I spent it all on a microwave oven and dinner for two at Charley’s Crab. And the idea of giving this crowd money was obscene.
“Jump in,” I counseled. “He who hesitates is lost.”
“I’ll remember that,” Troy said as he stuck his hand out to the guy behind me. “Hello. Glad you could make it.”
The music came from two lovely ladies playing piano and flute. I made my way to where they were giving away the hard stuff and ordered a vodka martini with a twist. There were three bartenders in black tie to serve what looked like a stag line at the makeshift bar. When I turned to go in search of caviar and other edibles I found my way blocked by a man in blazer and ascot.
“Archy McNally?” My host asked.
Harry Schuyler looked like his own grandpa. The years had not been kind, but why should they have been? He had drained every ounce of life out of each one, leaving nothing in reserve. Life on Ocean Boulevard and Gin Lane had taken their toll. His hair was thinning, his face was lined, and he stooped in the manner of old men far too thin for their height.
“It is, sir. Thank you for the invitation.”
He was holding a glass filled with sparkling water. Were it spiked, it was with something of the colorless variety. “Your father handled some business for me awhile back,” Schuyler said. “I understand he’s out of town.”
“On a cruise with mother. Not the best time of year to sail in the Caribbean, but it’s the only time he can get away. He will be disappointed to have missed the party.”
“Nice of you to say so, but I doubt it’s true. This is not my affair, as you can plainly see. It’s a fund-raiser for young Troy by the way, you don’t have to ante up just because you came.”
“I have no intention of doing so, sir.”
“Smart boy. As I was saying, it’s not my gathering, not at all. Tommy Appleton called me up north and asked if he could use Casa Gran for the happening. The old ark has a certain cachet, as I’m sure you know, and it’s been used for far less worthy causes. Tommy and I were at Saint Paul’s together, so what the hell.
“As it turned out it worked to my advantage. I wanted an excuse to get back here without people wondering why, and this was my ticket.” He concluded by taking a long swig of his drink.
I sipped mine. It was one hell of a martini. The bartenders must have been told to pour liberally to get the folks in a giving mood. “Then you invited me so we could meet accidently on purpose.”
“You don’t waste words or time, Mr. McNally, and that’s just what I want. When doing business I am a man of few words, and presently I am very short of time. I’ve heard good things about you and they are justified.” He took another swig.
I’m at your service, Mr. Schuyler,” I volunteered.
“Have you seen our roof garden?” he asked.
“Only in Town and Country and Architectural Digest. This is my first visit to Casa Gran.”
“Is that a martini you’ve got there?”
“It is, sir.”
He flagged the bartender and ordered another. “Don’t rush. I’ll leave mine, which is just designer water, and carry your spare. Now follow me.”
He led me out of the solarium and into a room twice as big with a vaulted ceiling trimmed in gold leaf. It was furnished with a resplendent array of Queen Anne and Chippendale pieces of museum quality, as the merchants along Antique Row in West Palm describe their wares. “The Grand Salon of Casa Gran,” Schuyler lectured, sounding like a tour guide. “The proportions and ceiling are exact replicas of the great room in Catherine’s Palace at Tsarskoye Selo. Nana Dolly was mad for the Romanovs. They say the furniture rivals Winterthur.”
It was stunning, and about as warm and inviting as an igloo. Where did nana Dolly kick off her shoes and kick up her heels? He opened another door and, for a change, we stepped into a small room. It was the elevator. A press of the button and we rose. The panel indicated four levels: B, 1, 2, 3. We entered on 1 and ascended to 3. Schuyler opened the door, stepped out ahead of me, and magically lit up the scene. Did I say ascended? Right to heaven.
The pool, lit in a rainbow of colors, was the centerpiece. Surrounding it were more reminders of the landscape architect and his minions.
Flowering trees, indigenous shrubs, and formal mini-gardens all theatrically illuminated. Replicas of Greek and Italian sculptures in marble looked down at us from their pedestals, most notably David, whose appendage was more in keeping with the gigantic original than this far smaller reproduction. Seeing my gaze, Schuyler remarked,
“Nana Dolly had a sense of humor.”
It was now dark, the sky had turned on its own twinklers and floodlights highlighted the beach below us and the eternal motion of the surf. The party had now spread out to the sandy terrain. “There are no words,” I said. “There really are no words.”
Indicating a marble bench, Schuyler sat and I joined him. “I grew up here and it still impresses me. Drink up, Mr. McNally, or I’ll devour your spare and hasten my end.”
That was the second time he had alluded to his poor health. “You can’t take the hooch, sir?”
“Oh, I can take it all right, but it would only beg the inevitable and there is something I want to do before I depart this mortal coil,” he waved my spare across his princely domain. “Like attend my son’s wedding in September.
“I have about six months to live, Mr. McNally. A year at the most. It seems my liver isn’t in the best of shape. I’m in no condition to withstand a transplant, should one become available, which is just as well. I would only mistreat that one, too. So, time is of the essence, son.”