Mary Clark: Loves Music, Loves To Dance

Amused, Darcy heard the note of awe in the other young woman’s voice. What Bev really meant was, “How are your mother and father? What’s it like to be with them? Are they really as gorgeous as they look in films?” The answer, Darcy thought, is, Yes, they’re gorgeous. Yes, they’re wonderful. Yes, I love them and I’m proud of them. It’s just that I’ve never felt comfortable in their world.

“When are they leaving for Australia?” Bev was trying to sound offhanded.

“They left. I caught the red-eye back to New York after seeing them off.” Darcy had combined a visit home with a business trip to Lake Tahoe, where she’d been hired to decorate a model ski house for budget-priced buyers. Her mother and father were embarking on an international tour with their play. She wouldn’t see them for at least six months.

Now she opened the container of coffee she’d picked up at a nearby lunch counter and settled down at her desk.

“You look great,” Bev observed. “I love that outfit.” The square-neck red wool dress and matching coat were part of the Rodeo Drive shopping tour her mother had insisted upon. “For such a pretty girl, you never pay enough attention to your clothes, darling,” her mother had fussed. “You should emphasize that wonderful ethereal quality.” As her father frequently observed, Darcy could have posed for the portrait of the maternal ancestor for whom she had been named. The original Darcy had left Ireland after the Revolutionary War to join her French fiancé, an officer with Lafayette ’s forces. They had the same wide-set eyes, more green than hazel, the same soft brown hair streaked with gold, the same straight nose.

“We’ve grown a bit since then,” Darcy enjoyed pointing out. “I’m five eight.

Darcy the First was a shrimp. That helps when you’re trying to look ethereal.” She had never forgotten when she was six and overheard a director comment, “How ever did two such stunning people manage to produce that mousy-looking child?” She still remembered standing perfectly still, absorbing the shock. A few minutes later when her mother tried to introduce her to someone on the set, “And this is my little girl, Darcy,” she had shouted “No!” and run away. Later she apologized for being rude.

This morning when she got off the plane at Kennedy, she’d dropped her bags at the apartment, then come directly to the office, not taking time to change into her usual working garb, jeans and a sweater. Bev waited for her to start sipping the coffee, then picked up the messages. “Do you want me to start getting these people for you?”

“Let me give Erin a quick call first.”

Erin picked up on the first ring. Her somewhat preoccupied greeting told Darcy that she was already at her worktable. They’d been college roommates together at Mount Holyoke. Then Erin had studied jewelry design. Recently she’d won the prestigious N. W. Ayer award for young designers. Darcy had also found her professional niche. After four years of working her way up in an advertising agency, she had switched careers from account executive to budget interior decorating. Both women were now twenty-eight, and they were as close as they’d been when living together in school. Darcy could picture Erin at her worktable, dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater, her red hair held back by a clip or in a ponytail, absorbed by her work, unaware of outside distraction.

The preoccupied “hello” gave way to a whoop of joy when Erin heard Darcy’s voice.

“You’re busy,” Darcy said. “I won’t keep you. Just wanted to report that I’ve arrived, and, of course, I wanted to see how Billy is.” Billy was Erin ’s father. An invalid, he’d been in a nursing home in Massachusetts for the past three years.

“Pretty much the same,” Erin told her.

“How’s the necklace going? When I phoned Friday you sounded worried.” Just after Darcy had left last month, Erin had landed a commission from Bertolini Jewelers to design a necklace using the client’s family gems. Bertolini was on a par with Cartier’s and Tiffany’s.

“That’s because I was still terrified the design might be off base. It really was pretty intricate. But all is well. I deliver it tomorrow morning and if I say so myself, it’s sensational. How was Bel-Air?”

“Glamorous.” They laughed together, then Darcy said, “Update me on Project Personal.”

Nona Roberts, a producer at Hudson Cable Network, had become friendly with Darcy and Erin at their health club. Nona was preparing a documentary on personal columns-about the kind of people who placed and answered the ads; their experiences, good or bad. Nona had asked Darcy and Erin to assist in the research by answering some of the ads. “You don’t have to see anybody more than once,” she’d urged. “Half the singles at the network are doing it and having a lot of laughs. And who knows, you might meet someone terrific. Anyhow, think about it.”

Erin, typically the more daring, had been unusually reluctant. Darcy had persuaded her it could be fun. “We won’t place our own ads,” she argued. “We’ll just answer some that look interesting. We won’t give our addresses, just a phone number. We’ll meet them in public places. What’s to lose?” They had started six weeks ago. Darcy had had time for only one date before she left on the trip to Lake Tahoe and Bel-Air. That man had written he was six one. As she told Erin afterward, he must have been standing on a ladder when he measured himself. Also he’d claimed he was an advertising executive. But when Darcy threw out a few names of agencies and clients, he was totally at sea. A liar and a jerk, she reported to Erin and Nona. Now, smiling in anticipation, Darcy asked Erin to fill her in on her most recent encounters. “I’ll save it all for tomorrow night when we get together with Nona,” Erin said.

“I’m writing every detail down in that notebook you gave me for Christmas. Suffice it to say, I’ve been out twice more since we talked. That brings the total to eight dates in the last three weeks. Most of them were nerds with absolutely no redeeming social value. One it turned out I’d met before. One of the new ones was really attractive and needless to say hasn’t called back. I’m meeting somebody tonight. He sounds okay, but let’s wait and see.” Darcy grinned. “Obviously, I haven’t missed much. How many ads have you answered for me?”

“About a dozen. I thought it would be fun to send both our letters to some of the same ads. We can really compare notes if those dudes call.” “I love it. Where are you meeting tonight’s prize?”

“In a pub off Washington Square.”

“What does he do?”

“Corporate law. He’s from Philadelphia. Just relocating here. You can make tomorrow night, can’t you?”

“Sure.” They were meeting Nona for dinner.

Erin ’s tone changed. “I’m glad you’re back in town, Darce. I’ve missed you.” “Me too,” Darcy said heartily. “Okay, see you then.” She started to say good-bye, then impulsively asked, “What’s the name of tonight’s pig-in-a-poke?” “Charles North.”

“Sounds upscale, waspy. Have fun, Erin-go-bragh.” Darcy hung up.

Bev was waiting patiently with the messages. Now her tone was frankly envious. “I swear, when you two talk, you sound like a couple of school kids. You’re closer than sisters. Thinking about my sister, I’d say you’re a lot closer than sisters.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Darcy said quietly.

The Sheridan Gallery on Seventy-eighth Street, just east of Madison Avenue, was in the midst of an auction. The contents of the vast country home of Mason Gates, the late oil baron, had drawn an overflow crowd of dealers and collectors.

Chris Sheridan observed the scene from the back of the room, reflecting with pleasure that it had been a coup to triumph over Sotheby’s and Christie’s for the privilege of auctioning this collection. Absolutely magnificent furniture from the Queen Anne period; paintings distinguished less by their technique than by their rarity; Revere silver that he knew would set off feverish bidding. At thirty-three, Chris Sheridan still looked more like the linebacker he had been in college than a leading authority on antique furniture. His six-four height was accentuated by his straight carriage. His broad shoulders tapered down to a trim waist. His sandy hair framed a strong-featured face. His blue eyes were disarming and friendly. As his competitors had learned, however, those eyes could quickly take on a keen, no-nonsense glint. Chris folded his arms as he watched the final bids on a 1683 Domenico Cucci cabinet with panels of pietra dura and central reliefs of inlaid stones. Smaller and less elaborate than the pair Cucci made for Louis XIV, it was nevertheless a magnificent, flawless piece that he knew the Met wanted desperately. The room quieted as the bidding between the two high-stakes players, the Met and the representative of a Japanese bank, continued. A tug on his arm made Chris turn with a distracted frown. It was Sarah Johnson, his executive assistant, an art expert whom he had coaxed away from a private museum in Boston. Her expression reflected concern. “Chris, I’m afraid there’s a problem,” she said. “Your mother’s on the phone. She says she has to talk to you immediately. She sounds pretty upset.”