Another thing that touched me was how sweetly anxious Clea was to see my parents again, this time in the company of her man. I’m sure she thought it legitimizing, making her more respectable to the world. If I’d had my wedding fantasies, I can only imagine what her feverish brain drummed up. She probably saw herself back at the Vineyard, fumigating ghosts of that haunted cliffhouse with a sage-burnt ceremony of sacred union. If that termagant Morgana were to deny permission, she knew the Colony would be readily offered (one helluva backup plan) and they’d be hitched without a hitch, vows exchanged in Chanel gown and bare feet over unnumbered grains of sand — which actually made today a kind of holy reconnoitering.
As we returned, the masseuse was leaving, an enormous folded leather table tucked under her arm with the ease of a yoga mat. Gita waved to us from the kitchen. Perry appeared, groggily post-shiatsu, with the newly arrived Captain Laughton and his (much) younger partner in tow. Dad gave all a generous greeting, with particular attention paid to Mr. Michelet, the informal guest of honor. As we entered the living room, Nick Sultan and his wife materialized at the front gate. Perry announced to Mars that “the door may now be bolted.” Apart from the help, there were ten of us.
While I hadn’t expected it, the addition of a few friendly couples was a relief. They leeched some pressure off. Of course it didn’t hurt that the captain’s fey, charming friend was slightly in awe of Thad, and not just for his film and stage work — he praised his novels and had the good sense not to bring up Jack. Whether or not he was sincere, he’d definitely done his homework, for which I was grateful.
Mom and Thad became instant partners in crime. She was always terrific with wounded souls and I think her being crippled allowed him to tap into the innate graciousness that played just beneath the surface of his cynical mask of social dysfunction. They were fellow Masons, funny and literate and conspiratorial — of the secret order of Those Who Knew. As the day grew longer they huddled and whispered, becoming even more fabulous and risqué. We gave them plenty of space. (I had a neurotic moment before reassuring myself Thad’s scabrous repartee would stop short of any mockery of Father. He would never have been so crass.) For his part, Perry was pleased at the alliance; he never brought home much except riches, so he was satisfied not to take center stage, happy that she was happy.
Besides, he would soon shine during the Grand Tour. I knew it might be dicey but Dad was particularly eager to display various artifacts belonging to Jack Michelet that he’d collected over the years like so many big-game heads. He also knew there was business to be discussed, however obliquely: Miriam’s odd proposal that her client novelize “Prodigal Son” for the Starwatch book series — I’d already primed the pump — and the more engaging idea of Nick Sultan’s that the surviving son adapt Chrysanthemum to the big screen. In fact, Perry had invited the television director and his spouse for brunch out of the former’s tenacious entreaties to package the shtick-fueled, intergenerational project. When I took Dad aside to briefly discuss, he said he’d have much preferred a “name” like Neil Jordan or Phil Noyce but had had the option for so damn long without incurring A-list interest (“A” for “Anyone”) that Nick’s passions were actually welcome. Besides, he said, if instinct had taught him anything, there was a lot to be said about going with what was in front of you.
I could tell Thad wasn’t fond of the director and it wasn’t hard to see why. Nick Sultan was one of those grating showbiz animals who couldn’t take a breath without advancing some pet project or other. His American wife reflected the same naked ambition — an aging Gold’s Gym rat, she must have thrown $40,000 at her teeth alone; exquisitely symmetrical, they gleamed like airbrushed headstones. Though hardly saying a word, Mrs. Sultan possessed the boundless energy of a trained spaniel, one who could circle her tail (or her master’s) ad infinitum, eating whatever amount of poo it took to get the job done.
When brunch was over Mars took latte orders, and that’s when Dad made his move — like sweethearts, he and Thad adjourned on cue. I watched the others quietly wrestle with whether they should follow but strategically held them at bay, informing that my father’s show-and-tells were heart-stoppingly tedious. I promised a scintillating private tour after espresso and desserts. They got the message.
As soon as they were safely engaged in frivolities (the captain’s boyfriend thought he saw Sting strolling past and everyone ran to have a look) I sprinted in hot pursuit of host and honored guest, catching up in the library.
“Your father’s firsts,” said Perry, waving to a shelf of leather-bound folios. “Did Miriam tell you I hold the option on Chrysanthemum?”
“Yes,” said Thad. “Mr. Sultan won’t let me forget.”
“He’s interested in directing.” I could tell by Dad’s tone that he wanted us to know he was slumming by even considering the Brit. But another implication was at hand: Perry Needham Krohn’s instincts never failed him. “I’m sure he’d do a fair job — he’s certainly thought about it long enough. He’s passionate, and I think that’s key. If you have a passion, you’re halfway there.”
“Talent helps,” said Thad drolly.
(A small, unvarnished dig that my father dug.)
“Talent would be nice. But Nick comes from British theater.”
“They all come from British theater.”
“Right — the RSC. Well if he can hack Marat/Sade, I’m hoping he’s up for Chrysanthemum. Besides, you’ve got people like Rob Marshall hitting home runs, right out of the box. Nick’s got great energy.”
Suddenly he was cheerleading, which I doubt had been his intention. As if to stop himself in his tracks, he turned to ask what I thought.
“It’s kind of hard to judge from his work on the set. I mean, it’s a well-oiled machine at this point, right? A feature takes a whole different—”
“True,” said Perry. He faced our friend. “What do you think of Chrysanthemum? As one of your father’s books.” A good, simple question which I’m sure gave Dad the fleeting sense he’d regained control. When Thad didn’t reply, he added, somewhat awkwardly, “What’s your opinion?”
“I’ve always had a special relationship to that novel,” said Thad, without elaborating.
This seemed to please my father.
“Nick said it might be something you’d like to adapt.”