―Welcome to the Phillips Gallery.
I‘m Giselle Keenan,‖ she said to me. Then she turned her head and regarded me again.
―I hope you don‘t mind my asking, but . . . who did your color? The streaks are wonderful.”
―Um, Keith,‖ I told her, his last name escaping me for a moment.
― The Keith?‖ Giselle uttered the name with hushed reverence. ―I‘ve tried and tried to book him. How did you do it?‖
―I‘m staying at Les Anges—‖
―With the Baker twins? We were all on the Hearts and Hopes ball committee last season. Tell them Giselle said hi, okay? I loved their Vanity Fair thing.‖
―Sure,‖ I told her, filing away some mental notes. ―And I‘m actually here to see Will Phillips? He‘s expecting me. I‘m Megan.‖
―Right away.‖ She pushed a few buttons on her phone system. As she did, a well-dressed guy with shaggy hair and the ruddy complexion of someone who spent lots of time on boats, or golf courses, or both, entered the gallery. He smiled at me in the way that I had seen so many guys smile at my sister. My first instinct was to turn to see if he was smiling at some really hot girl standing behind me. Apparently, the Cinderella effect had lasted after the ball.
Just as my golfing sailor took a couple of steps in my direction, Will materialized.
―Megan? Welcome to the gallery.‖
He wore a blue sport coat, an open-collar light blue shirt, khaki pants, and maroon loafers with no socks. I would soon learn that variations on this outfit were Palm Beach‘s unofficial male uniform. My sailor offered me a little nod of recognition and a good-natured look of regret. Then he turned and walked out.
―Have you had a chance to look around yet?‖ Will asked.
―Not much. But this room is gorgeous.‖
―I grew up with it. I don‘t even see it anymore,‖ Will confessed.
I wanted Will to be comfortable enough around me to be himself—what better poster boy for an article about Palm Beach could there be?—but it was hard to squelch my desire to kick him in the shins for being so spoiled.
―Want to take the two-cent tour and then a walk on the avenue?‖
―Sounds good,‖ I answered him.
Will mostly talked, and I mostly listened, as he showed me through the two expansive white rooms of the gallery. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of Corot‘s work and life, and he took me through the artist‘s three distinct periods, then turned to me. ―Let‘s go.‖
We walked out into the dazzling early-afternoon sunshine and turned right on the sidewalk, passing one designer shop after another. Ferragamo. Gucci. Hermès. Tiffany.
There was nary a Gap nor a Starbucks in sight. The pedestrian traffic was light, and the day was warm. The only real action was in front of a restaurant named Ta-boo, where a team of valets was efficiently parking a substantial lineup of Bentleys, Mercedeses, and Rolls-Royces.
I noticed a speed-limit sign that was posted with a minimum as well as a maximum.
Why would you possibly have a minimum speed requirement?
―What‘s up with those signs?‖ I asked.
―They don‘t have those in Philadelphia?‖ He looked puzzled. ―It‘s to keep the tourists from slowing down to gawk. People around here like their privacy.‖
―Who said I‘m from Philadelphia?‖
―Sage.‖
Well, okay. This could work to my advantage. For research purposes, it couldn‘t hurt for Will to also think I was the other Megan.
―So I‘ve never been to Philly,‖ Will said. ―Tell me about where you grew up.‖
Thanks to my Internet research that very morning, this wasn‘t hard. I told him where I liked to eat (Tre Scalini), where I liked to shop (the Smak Parlour), and where I liked to go on vacation (Gstaad, for the skiing, and Brussels, for the shopping). I was having so much fun inventing myself that I barely noticed we had done the full circle of Worth Avenue and were standing in front of the gallery again.
Will looked at his watch. ―I have to get back to
I‘m Giselle Keenan,‖ she said to me. Then she turned her head and regarded me again.
―I hope you don‘t mind my asking, but . . . who did your color? The streaks are wonderful.”
―Um, Keith,‖ I told her, his last name escaping me for a moment.
― The Keith?‖ Giselle uttered the name with hushed reverence. ―I‘ve tried and tried to book him. How did you do it?‖
―I‘m staying at Les Anges—‖
―With the Baker twins? We were all on the Hearts and Hopes ball committee last season. Tell them Giselle said hi, okay? I loved their Vanity Fair thing.‖
―Sure,‖ I told her, filing away some mental notes. ―And I‘m actually here to see Will Phillips? He‘s expecting me. I‘m Megan.‖
―Right away.‖ She pushed a few buttons on her phone system. As she did, a well-dressed guy with shaggy hair and the ruddy complexion of someone who spent lots of time on boats, or golf courses, or both, entered the gallery. He smiled at me in the way that I had seen so many guys smile at my sister. My first instinct was to turn to see if he was smiling at some really hot girl standing behind me. Apparently, the Cinderella effect had lasted after the ball.
Just as my golfing sailor took a couple of steps in my direction, Will materialized.
―Megan? Welcome to the gallery.‖
He wore a blue sport coat, an open-collar light blue shirt, khaki pants, and maroon loafers with no socks. I would soon learn that variations on this outfit were Palm Beach‘s unofficial male uniform. My sailor offered me a little nod of recognition and a good-natured look of regret. Then he turned and walked out.
―Have you had a chance to look around yet?‖ Will asked.
―Not much. But this room is gorgeous.‖
―I grew up with it. I don‘t even see it anymore,‖ Will confessed.
I wanted Will to be comfortable enough around me to be himself—what better poster boy for an article about Palm Beach could there be?—but it was hard to squelch my desire to kick him in the shins for being so spoiled.
―Want to take the two-cent tour and then a walk on the avenue?‖
―Sounds good,‖ I answered him.
Will mostly talked, and I mostly listened, as he showed me through the two expansive white rooms of the gallery. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of Corot‘s work and life, and he took me through the artist‘s three distinct periods, then turned to me. ―Let‘s go.‖
We walked out into the dazzling early-afternoon sunshine and turned right on the sidewalk, passing one designer shop after another. Ferragamo. Gucci. Hermès. Tiffany.
There was nary a Gap nor a Starbucks in sight. The pedestrian traffic was light, and the day was warm. The only real action was in front of a restaurant named Ta-boo, where a team of valets was efficiently parking a substantial lineup of Bentleys, Mercedeses, and Rolls-Royces.
I noticed a speed-limit sign that was posted with a minimum as well as a maximum.
Why would you possibly have a minimum speed requirement?
―What‘s up with those signs?‖ I asked.
―They don‘t have those in Philadelphia?‖ He looked puzzled. ―It‘s to keep the tourists from slowing down to gawk. People around here like their privacy.‖
―Who said I‘m from Philadelphia?‖
―Sage.‖
Well, okay. This could work to my advantage. For research purposes, it couldn‘t hurt for Will to also think I was the other Megan.
―So I‘ve never been to Philly,‖ Will said. ―Tell me about where you grew up.‖
Thanks to my Internet research that very morning, this wasn‘t hard. I told him where I liked to eat (Tre Scalini), where I liked to shop (the Smak Parlour), and where I liked to go on vacation (Gstaad, for the skiing, and Brussels, for the shopping). I was having so much fun inventing myself that I barely noticed we had done the full circle of Worth Avenue and were standing in front of the gallery again.
Will looked at his watch. ―I have to get back to
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