notion. For purely, um, academic reasons.
―Not to worry, dear heart,‖ Marco cooed, setting cinnamon buns on a cooling rack. ―It‘s a stroke of good fortune. I believe I can come to your rescue. Have a bun.‖
I wolfed one down, both relieved that he thought he could help and newly guilt-ridden.
Marco had been nothing but nice to me from the first moment we‘d met, and I was being less than honest about my intentions in Palm Beach. This is what journalists do, I reminded myself.
As Marco led me to his pink bungalow at the north end of the property, my remorse abated. It turned out that I wasn‘t the only one who had a secret. When Marco wasn‘t Chef Marco, he was Zsa Zsa Lahore, the most glamorous drag queen this side of the intercoastal. And he just happened to be my size.
We walked though his red and black living room with a lizard-print couch—he was currently in a western phase—and into his bedroom. Unlike his general demeanor, it was aggressively masculine, all silver and chrome, with a painting over his bed of two cowboys eying each other with lust. How Brokeback .
―My closets are your closets,‖ he announced, opening double doors to a walk-in nearly as large as his bedroom.
How generous could one fairy gaymother possibly be? The walk-in was filled with rack upon rack upon rack of gorgeous designer clothes. He began pulling out possibilities.
―For the gallery with Will, I‘m thinking Bottega Veneta high-waisted black crepe trousers and the Fendi ivory chiffon blouse. Now let us find you more.‖
I tried to protest, but by the time he was done, he‘d filled one large suitcase and a king-size garment bag, saying that I‘d need these clothes for the future.
―My advice for what you‘re wearing, darling?‖ he offered. ―Burn it.‖
Next came hair and makeup. Marco didn‘t share Keith‘s genius for hair, but he did teach me to use a flatiron. Next was makeup, which he had more than perfected, and then I changed into the outfit he‘d suggested. It fit. I looked down at my black loafers and bit my lip in concern. Even I knew they were a nonono .
―Oh, dear.‖ Marco nibbled on a perfectly manicured fingernail.
I wore a women‘s eight. He wore a women‘s ten. Then he snapped his fingers. ―Stretch Chanel ballet slippers, darling. Just the thing.‖
I tried them—still too big, but they stayed on because of the elastic. He promised to call Keith and have him bring over some other options. I protested one more time, but Marco was hearing none of it.
―Dahling,‖ he drolled in a near-perfect Zsa Zsa Gabor accent as he coated my lashes with mascara, ―you look stunning. Which car will you take?‖
I hadn‘t given it a moment‘s thought, which was what I told Marco. In exactly fifty minutes, I was supposed to be downtown on Worth Avenue, where Will would give me the grand tour of his father‘s gallery and then take me to the Breakers for tea.
―Take the Ferrari,‖ Marco advised. ―The red Ferrari. It‘s the most fun to drive. You can handle a stick?‖ He smirked at the sexual innuendo.
―I sure can.‖ I laughed. My father‘s pickup truck had a manual transmission.
Marco smiled. ―My advice, my dear? When given the opportunity to handle a stick, handle it.‖
The Phillips Gallery was located at the north end of Worth Avenue, and it had but a single painting in its picture window: a stone bridge in the French countryside. An even more discreet sign announced PHILLIPS GALLERY: PALM BEACH. JEAN-BAPTISTE-CAMILLE COROT, WORKS. NOVEMBER 13 TO DECEMBER 23.
I left my car at the valet stand directly in front of the gallery and then stepped inside. So this was it. The gallery that Will‘s father wanted him to run. The front room was stark white with a polished wood floor. The air-conditioning offered relief from the sun and humidity.
I was greeted by a young woman in a very fitted black suit, with a de rigueur Palm Beach tan and blunt-cut shoulder-length blond hair.
―Not to worry, dear heart,‖ Marco cooed, setting cinnamon buns on a cooling rack. ―It‘s a stroke of good fortune. I believe I can come to your rescue. Have a bun.‖
I wolfed one down, both relieved that he thought he could help and newly guilt-ridden.
Marco had been nothing but nice to me from the first moment we‘d met, and I was being less than honest about my intentions in Palm Beach. This is what journalists do, I reminded myself.
As Marco led me to his pink bungalow at the north end of the property, my remorse abated. It turned out that I wasn‘t the only one who had a secret. When Marco wasn‘t Chef Marco, he was Zsa Zsa Lahore, the most glamorous drag queen this side of the intercoastal. And he just happened to be my size.
We walked though his red and black living room with a lizard-print couch—he was currently in a western phase—and into his bedroom. Unlike his general demeanor, it was aggressively masculine, all silver and chrome, with a painting over his bed of two cowboys eying each other with lust. How Brokeback .
―My closets are your closets,‖ he announced, opening double doors to a walk-in nearly as large as his bedroom.
How generous could one fairy gaymother possibly be? The walk-in was filled with rack upon rack upon rack of gorgeous designer clothes. He began pulling out possibilities.
―For the gallery with Will, I‘m thinking Bottega Veneta high-waisted black crepe trousers and the Fendi ivory chiffon blouse. Now let us find you more.‖
I tried to protest, but by the time he was done, he‘d filled one large suitcase and a king-size garment bag, saying that I‘d need these clothes for the future.
―My advice for what you‘re wearing, darling?‖ he offered. ―Burn it.‖
Next came hair and makeup. Marco didn‘t share Keith‘s genius for hair, but he did teach me to use a flatiron. Next was makeup, which he had more than perfected, and then I changed into the outfit he‘d suggested. It fit. I looked down at my black loafers and bit my lip in concern. Even I knew they were a nonono .
―Oh, dear.‖ Marco nibbled on a perfectly manicured fingernail.
I wore a women‘s eight. He wore a women‘s ten. Then he snapped his fingers. ―Stretch Chanel ballet slippers, darling. Just the thing.‖
I tried them—still too big, but they stayed on because of the elastic. He promised to call Keith and have him bring over some other options. I protested one more time, but Marco was hearing none of it.
―Dahling,‖ he drolled in a near-perfect Zsa Zsa Gabor accent as he coated my lashes with mascara, ―you look stunning. Which car will you take?‖
I hadn‘t given it a moment‘s thought, which was what I told Marco. In exactly fifty minutes, I was supposed to be downtown on Worth Avenue, where Will would give me the grand tour of his father‘s gallery and then take me to the Breakers for tea.
―Take the Ferrari,‖ Marco advised. ―The red Ferrari. It‘s the most fun to drive. You can handle a stick?‖ He smirked at the sexual innuendo.
―I sure can.‖ I laughed. My father‘s pickup truck had a manual transmission.
Marco smiled. ―My advice, my dear? When given the opportunity to handle a stick, handle it.‖
The Phillips Gallery was located at the north end of Worth Avenue, and it had but a single painting in its picture window: a stone bridge in the French countryside. An even more discreet sign announced PHILLIPS GALLERY: PALM BEACH. JEAN-BAPTISTE-CAMILLE COROT, WORKS. NOVEMBER 13 TO DECEMBER 23.
I left my car at the valet stand directly in front of the gallery and then stepped inside. So this was it. The gallery that Will‘s father wanted him to run. The front room was stark white with a polished wood floor. The air-conditioning offered relief from the sun and humidity.
I was greeted by a young woman in a very fitted black suit, with a de rigueur Palm Beach tan and blunt-cut shoulder-length blond hair.
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