We sat in the Metropolitan Club, noticing what a beautiful Spring day it was outside. The sun was shining through the large windows in the grand room which served as a spot for an elegant luncheon. I was the guest of the Tut, daughter of one of the patriarchs of New Orleans and her guest. Also present was a frilly old queen who had brought a group of ladies up from New Orleans to see Broadway shows and tell them funny stories of things that had occurred twenty years ago. At least he thought they were funny, he laughed at all his own jokes while they sat there–what a silly old man.

         The night before, a slightly different group had enjoyed dinner at La Grenouille. It was just Tut, the two lady friends from the Garden District (the queen was not invited), and me. Also in attendance was a woman named Trinket (short for Katharine).

         I had met Trinket four months earlier, at Lusardi's on 2nd Avenue. I remember I had shown up late (intentionally) and when I got there, Trinket's appearance made her stand out immediately. She wore a Hermes jacket, with an incredibly beautiful little purse. Her hair was done wonderfully. It wasn't a helmet or a hair-don’t; it was soft curls, pulled back, really beautiful, almost reminiscent of a painting from the 18th century, except modified for the 21st century. She had white/blond hair (or as my aunt Mary Jane would say, she was a 'blondine'). She was quite fancy. I'd always heard she was quite wonderful and interesting, and had always planned on meeting her one day. I knew it would happen, but I just wasn't sure when. But before that meeting, I'd heard stories about her for almost two years, through my friend Elizabeth. She and Trinket had both attended school long ago, as they were both approaching their eighties. They had been girlfriends back at school. They had known each other through their marriages, through their divorces, through their widowhood and were still very good friends. Elizabeth now lived in a beautiful Creole home in New Orleans, but Trinket was still in Manhattan. She lived in the Waldorf Astoria in the apartment that had once been home to Frank Sinatra and, before that, Cole Porter. Room after room after room after room. Quite a stupendous place.

         I sat down at the table at Lusardi's, looking my absolute best. I said that I was delighted to see everyone, but that I would return in a minute. I was going to wash my hands before the meal, as I always do when I get out of a taxi cab. You never know what germs you can pick up in a taxi cab. Elizabeth, who was seated next to Trinket, asked me if I was going outside to smoke a cigarette. I said, “Why no. I quit smoking. Why do you ask?”

         “If you were,” she said, “I was going to ask you to escort Trinket outside.” And I knew that this was my opportunity.

         We went outside of the restaurant. We stood closely, side by side beneath the restaurant's awning, and she smoked a cigarette which I lit for her. I was prepared for that. My beautiful gold Dunhill lighter with onyx inlay, which had been given to me by my friend Susan. Susan didn't want anything to do with it. It was given to her by a Greek magnate who was her lover at the time. He owned ships and islands, and he wanted to own her. She wasn't interested because what she wanted was to own him. So instead, he gave her lovely little gifts and trinkets. And here I was, using a trinket to light Trinket's cigarette.

         We chatted and talked. I was as charming as I could possibly be. It really comes easily, especially if I'm laying it on. It's like butter-cream icing on a cake. I had a fantasy that this would work, and work well. I had mapped my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. That may sound coarse, but I'd been thinking about it for two years. I certainly had seen a lot of it, being in the line of work I'm in. Young women marrying older men, doing well, making the men happy. Why couldn't I do that? And now I was finally with what would prove to be my golden ticket, if it worked out as planned.

         Trinket and I left the street and rejoined the group inside. We'd been mere acquaintances outside, but were returning to the table as friends. Gosh, was it all that easy? I told Trinket it was amazing to think that we were neighbors and had not met. She lived around the corner from me at the Waldorf  Astoria Hotel. I lived on the corner of 3rd Avenue and 47th Street.

         Two months later at the La Grenouille, Trinket was the host. As we ate our divine sweetbreads, tender baby green salads and sole, Trinket informed us that the only place she ate sole was at La Grenouille. I told my standard funny, dirty jokes, which all the ladies found witty and naughty, but all enjoyed. I did go a step too far when I whispered into Tut’s ear that at home I was recording a classic episode of the television show The Newlywed Game, the one where the host of the show, Bob Eubanks, asks the contestant to name the most unusual place they've made whoopee, and his reply is "Up the butt, Bob," which brings down the house.

         “Can you believe that?” I asked Tut.

         “I can't believe you told ME that!” she answered.

         It was really rather funny and most wicked, which had it's repercussions the next day at the Metropolitan Club. I was looking at these ladies and this elderly queen, who was very disturbed that I was at the table; he'd heard about the night before, and probably thought he would be the only person there who could grab the attention, giggles and smiles of the ladies. I was upstaging him with my New York stories that were fresh and new, as opposed to the old New Orleans stories, that were rather stale. Although, recycled by a clever person, they could be very amusing (believe me, I do it all the time). 

         After that day turned into evening, I met up with Trinket in her grand apartment, to relive and rehash the day's occurrences. However, an invitation to Trinket's home hadn't always been an open one. One had to earn that privilege.

         I remember the day after meeting her at the dinner at Lusardi's. Instead of having lunch, I went to Bloom, which is in the W Hotel and across the street from the Waldorf Astoria. I wanted a rose. A single rose. They had a beautiful yellow rose, which I said I wanted to give as a gift to a friend. The salesperson said that a yellow rose was for friendship and a red rose was for love. I chose red…

         I delivered it to the concierge of The Towers. The Towers–that's where the president stays, and visiting royalty and nobility, and once Cole Porter and Frank Sinatra. Now Trinket was staying there. The Towers has a private entrance. You need someone to escort you in an elevator. It's not like the public section of the hotel where general reservations happen and people come and go. The Towers is where people keep their New York pied-à-terres and where diplomats and heads of state keep their apartments year round for their once-in-a-while visits to the Big Apple.

         Days later, I was finally summoned to visit. It was a Sunday evening, and we were going to go to dinner. This became a routine. I would go to her place, she would have a glass of iced-tea, a glass of red wine, and fifteen cigarettes, while I had a glass of wine and a glass of iced-tea. There was always caviar or smoked salmon or sweet, little pickled carrots. We would munch and chat and visit and talk about the week. And then we would be driven by her chauffer to dinner.

         The first time that this took place, I was shown to her apartment. The place was enormous. The door was opened by her housekeeper, and there stood her chauffeur/butler who took my coat. The place was full of flowers, roses, tulips, bells of Ireland, huge arrangements whose colors were correctly selected for each of the several rooms. I did not see my rose and when I asked where it was, she responded “In the car, the color red is not used in my home.” And darned if she wasn’t telling the truth, when we went to dinner, suctioned to the rear window was a little vial which held the now clipped-short rose.          But I digress. Before we left for dinner I was given a tour of her home. She then met me in the living room, an enormous room that had three generous seating arrangements–the perfect thing for a New York Park Avenue apartment. You want three areas where people can chit-chat and talk. And there, in the center of the room, was the very famous and notable console, which had been passed into her hands by a grateful person whom she had purchased her apartment at 720 Park from years before. 720 is consider by many to be the most privileged of white-glove buildings in the city. She purchased the apartment when things were not flying off the market as they do today. The owner was so grateful, he left a piece of furniture. It turns out that the piece of furniture was a signed piece of furniture that had been in the king's apartment at Versailles. The piece was literally worth more than the apartment itself (well, I don't know if that would still be the case today because those apartments now are in the 20, 30, 40 million dollar price range).

         She had been married, and decided that that had been enough for her. Her husband had divorced her, so she moved into the Waldorf. And here I was, looking at her pink and mint green, enormous living room. She led me on a tour through the gallery, and I walked through the foyer, into a meeting room. Then she took me into an enormous dining room. There was a beautiful chandelier. Obviously, she didn't think that much of it, because when I told her it was so beautiful, she kind of dismissed it with a “Huh.”

         We then walked into a kitchen which was the size of a suburban mansion's kitchen. Nearby, in one of the four maid's bedchambers Trinket had a small beauty salon–with a 1960's beauty parlor hair dryer–and a manicurist's station complete with pedicure tub. I pictured myself saying "Just buff today, no polish for me." This woman had it all, right there. Food, hair, make-up, nails, toes. Really, this all looked so juicy.

         Then we went into a large hallway which led from one end of the floor of the building to the other. Her bedroom suite consisted of a very large bedroom, a dressing room and a bath. The next room was her office. Another beautifully decorated room served as the game room, where she would play bridge with her friends (although I would assume that there really were not a lot of friends that came over; she lived in this gilded palace all alone). The next room was the library. The room following that was her assistant's room.

         The final room (each one of these rooms, by the way, had its own master bath), which we entered after leaving that one and wandering further down the hallway, had once been the ballroom for Cole Porter's fabulous parties. When you think of the people who had been entertained there, and the piano that had played in that room and in the living room, just the atmosphere and the thought of memories of what occurred there was remarkable. And then thinking about the Rat Pack getting smashed and dancing and laughing and telling their risqué jokes–that was another period and another time. What would I make of mine?

         Here I was with this grand older woman. Yes, older. When I showed Trinket's photograph to one of my aunts, she said, “She's very handsome, but Marc, she's very old.”       

         “She's very perfect for me.” I said

         Her ballroom–which she later started calling her garden room–was where we would meet to share a chit-chat and drink before heading out to supper. It had double-high ceilings, and was really just a vast place. Once, I was looking for a cork screw and I saw a closet door to the right of the bar, which I thought would be the perfect place to find one. I opened the door and saw that there was a long hallway. This hall led to yet another very large room. It must have been used for storage, as boxes and furniture were piled neatly in the room's center. It also had a sizable bathroom. The real surprise was that it was the only room within the apartment, other than the front door and kitchen, that had a door to the hotel's hallway. I knew that if everything worked out, this would be my room. My dogs could stay there without disturbing anyone and I could come and go as I pleased without disturbing her. It would be perfect.

         We developed a very close friendship. I should have respected the relationship and not made wicked jokes. I'd heard she'd had three heart attacks and seven foot operations. She refused to wear a seat belt and smoked like a chimney. I would laugh and tell my friends, “How about a trip on the cliffs in a mustang convertible?” Or, “How about a trip through the drive-through chapel in Las Vegas?” It was really terribly wicked, but I was just being amusing. You know, just good laughs.

         She was really a wonderful person, if you dismissed her anti-Semitic, extreme, Republican party viewpoints and her strong dislike of blacks. She was born in Alabama to an aristocratic mother and a wheeling-dealing father. They moved to Akron, Ohio, where all the rubber plants and companies were. They lived, she said, in a beautiful town on a hilltop. Someone told me, when I mentioned Akron, that Akron was a horrible city that no one would ever want to visit. They said that all the waste, blue and black smoke, ran through the town, and the only place that didn't suffer that was the hill where all the rich people lived. Well, that's where she lived. So of course she thought it was lovely. And here she was today, owning the last private rubber company in the America. She told me that three U.S. presidents had asked her not to sell to the Chinese. And she hadn't. She was a loyal American. A good American. An old fashioned American. Well, at least I'm sure that any WASP country club would be thrilled to have her as a member.

         So we would sit on Sunday nights and chit-chat. Talking about my decorating projects. Talking about her past and her different enjoyments, and her beautiful little objects. She loved frogs. I would show up with a frog motif. Whether it was an amazing little Austrian bronze frog from the Secessionist Movement, or just a funny little needle point of a frog in a little gold frame. She enjoyed it all. So did I. What I really enjoyed was the way she poured Opus 1 like it was Kool-Aid. I was taking ballroom dance lessons in preparation for my voyage on the Queen Mary II. I asked Trinket if she liked to dance and she said she loved to but with a total of seven foot surgeries she no longer could.

         “How sad.” I said.

         She bristled and said “Nothing about me is sad.”

         I corrected myself quickly and said that it was sad indeed, because the room where she’d dance would be favored with the beauty of the rear of her head, and her beautiful curls. She blushed.

         I had to match favor for favor, and keep things even between us, because I didn't want to appear to be using anything or anybody. I remember showing up at the wine shop to buy a bottle to take over to Trinket's place and, really rather stupidly when it comes to wine, purchasing ones that were $80 or $120 a bottle. I knew that in restaurants they were be much more costly, but at the time I felt like I was making a safe bet.

         This reminds me of a funny story that happed around the same time. A couple, who were clients, invited me to dinner and were not happy about something, and talked to each other and said “I really don’t care for the Sommelier, the man doesn’t know what he is talking about.”

         “The Sommelier here is much better than dinner at the restaurant last night!” the wife added. 

         I asked why restaurants were hiring Somalians. They laughed. I asked again, and they stared at me. I asked “What?” and they stared at each other. I have always called that guy “the wine steward.” I really had never heard of a Sommelier. I am just happy that the contract was signed before I asked that question!

         Trinket and I would go to Sestina, on 2nd Avenue, where they had the most delicious veal ragu over pappardelle. It was wonderful, delicious food. And so polite–they would bring a chair outside to the sidewalk so Trinket could smoke in-between courses.

         Boy, she could smoke. I remember one night we were being driven in her car and the chauffeur, Marion, began to cough. And as she puffed on her cigarette, raising it with a slight tremor in her hand to her puff, puff, puff of the lips, she said to me, “You've been coughing, and so has Marion, I sure hope you're not catching anything that you will eventually give me.”

         “Trinket, we don't have colds,” I looked at her and said, “it's your cigarettes.”

         “That's ridiculous.” she replied.

         She was rather pissed off those days because New York had finally passed its law saying you could not smoke in public places. So she and her other smoking buddies had decided to start dining in New Jersey. That's all changed now, too. You can't smoke there. But at that time you still could. So on Saturdays they'd travel to New Jersey, and on Sundays it was my night.

         We had some good times and some good laughs. The most special time came at Christmas. I'd never had anyone treat me the way she treated me that Christmas. She was so excited and so thrilled. I was too. We had to celebrate two weeks early because she was busy. I knew of a company that produced hand-made, embroidered, sequined and beaded shawls. I ordered one that featured a long, elegant stem of orchids and, customized for me, small little frogs perched here and there on the leaves. It truly was a masterwork, and she was touched beyond belief. I also gave her an antique porcelain doll that was two inches tall, and I told her to hang it on her tree. And, of course, another frog. But the surprise was for me.

         There lay a pile of boxes. I was truly taken aback. Every box had a little note, giving me a hint of what's inside. In one box, a classic Worth and Worth fedora. In another box, a beautiful burl wood clock that had a barometer on one side, a thermometer on another, a clock on the other, and a my monogram on the fourth side. Truly beautiful and very touching. In the next box was a petit-point pillow of a frog who was on a throne with a crown on his head. She said that represented me, the light of her life, the prince among princes. I wondered if it was almost time for me to slide my seven carat diamond ring on her finger. I thought that stone would be fitting to a woman who wore pearls that were gifts from the emir of Kuwait.

         The next box was a tie box, which held a Hermes tie with little bottles on it, and another with little grapevines. It held another Hermes tie, which was red, green and pale gray. And yet another one that was pale blue with little black diamonds. Then there was a large, beautiful goblet of fine crystal, that held in its bowl one entire bottle of wine. There was a crystal stopper for a wine bottle and a wonderful set which included a wine opener, a wine breather and a wine closer. Another gift was a tablecloth with wine bottle embroidery. Another was note-cards which had a small grape leaf running across them, and block letters embossed, MEC. Another was two bottles of Opus 1. All of these gifts signified wine. Funny, she thought I was a wine expert! All in all, if I don't remember them all; it was twelve gifts for the twelve days of Christmas.

         I was truly overwhelmed, and touched beyond belief, because I realized that someone had done something that no one else had ever done for me, but it was something I had done for other people. In my mad crushes that I'd had for people, I had gone to this trouble–and here she had gone to this trouble for me. My heart was blessed and broken for here I had someone who really loved me, and all I did was really like them. It was like that could lead to love. And, I'm embarrassed to say, a like that could lead to love that could lead to security. I never cared about being wealthy. But at my age I started thinking about being secure. Whenever my assistant would ask me, "How's granny?" I would reply, “Someone has to send your child to college, and it may as well be Trinket.”

         And it may have been, except for that awful night…

The conclusion to Trinket...next Monday!