There
are things you never expect to find in a taxi. Things like love
letters. This one was easy to miss, wedged under the driver’s seat
except for a tiny triangle of icy blue playing peekaboo. I would
never have seen it if a stretch limo to our right hadn’t turned
with no warning, nearly shearing off the front fender.
When
the driver slammed the brakes, I was on my way home after three hours
inside a walk-in closet. My handbag pirouetted over the seat,
releasing a sea of bracelets, beads, scarves, shoulder pads, Miracle
Bras, panty hose, scissors, Scotch tape, safety pins, Velcro, Motrin,
tampons, and Red Bull. To the barrage of expletives from the driver,
I tossed it all together like a crazy salad and stuffed it back into
my bag.
That’s
when I spotted the envelope.
I
tugged at the corner and it slid free. The paper was thick,
luxurious, and addressed in amethyst ink. I lifted the flap, tracing
my finger over the midnight-blue lining embedded with whispery white
threads. I held it to my nose.
A
faint perfume. Two sheets were neatly folded inside.
Dear
Caroline...
I
was just a block from home, so I slid it into a jacket pocket and
searched for my wallet. After greeting the doorman, I picked up my
mail and rushed upstairs to feed Harry, the man of the house, my
yellow lab. It wasn’t until a week later, when I wore the jacket
again, that I thought of the letter.
When
important things happen, your mind has a way of fixing the moments
into your memory. You recall exactly where you were and why, who you
were with, the time of day, even the light. I began reading the
letter on the bus up Madison Avenue, passing Calvin Klein, Donna
Karan, Barneys, Yves St. Laurent, and Ralph Lauren’s flagship store
in the Rhinelander Mansion. Only then I didn’t try to glimpse the
clothes as the shop windows fast-forwarded like frames from a
high-fashion video.
It
was a crisp fall day, a time of beginnings. For no particular reason,
everything felt right in my world when I woke that morning. It was
Saturday. The Chinese finger trap of time was looser. My plan was to
spend the morning at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then walk
part of the way back through Central Park.
I
was in navy D&G flannel slacks, a white ribbed Tory Burch
sweater, and Fratelli Rosetti loafers. My jacket was over my arm. On
the way to the bus I stopped at Starbucks and asked for Panama La
Florentina, the coffee of the day, because the barista behind the
counter told me it was similar to their house blend, and anyway, I
just liked the way it sounded. Before I left, I put the coffee down
and slipped on my jacket.
The only free seat on the bus was the hot
seat in the back, always the last to be taken because it was over
some motor part that turned it into a radiator. I sat anyway, afraid
that if the bus stopped short I’d be faced with litigation. Before
I opened the newspaper, I slid my Metrocard into my pocket. That’s
when I remembered the letter.
I
opened the envelope and recalled how much I had admired the
stationery, particularly the way the sender put the return address
not in the usual places—on the upper left-hand corner or on the
flap—but vertically up the left side of the front edge of the
envelope, in carefully printed block letters.
Dear
Caroline, I know you’re used to reading emails, not letters. I know
you make split-second decisions, and think life’s more black and
white than gray, but I have to explain...and I beg you to listen.
He
talked about his empty life before they met—the unhappy
relationships, his despair at not being able to find the right woman,
his feelings of isolation. Then they met and everything changed.
How
can I explain the way I feel about you?
Let me tell you about a
book of letters I read by the physicist and Nobel laureate Richard P.
Feynman. His first wife had moved to Albuquerque to be near him when
he worked on the Manhattan Project in Los Alamos. She later died
there in a sanitarium, from tuberculosis. A year and a half after her
death he wrote, “I find it hard to understand in my mind what it
means to love you after you are dead. But I still want to comfort and
take care of you—and I want you to love me and care for me.” He
ventures that maybe they could still make plans together, but no, he
had lost his “idea- woman, the general instigator of all our wild
adventures.”
“You
can give me nothing now yet I love you so that you stand in my way of
loving anyone else,” he wrote. “But I want to stand there. You,
dead, are so much better than anyone else alive.”
Before
you nothing in my life had real meaning. You’re gone now, yet all I
think about is you. I live in the shadow of our relationship,
pretending you’re still with me. Even without you, the memories of
our life together mean more than the reality of being with someone
else.
Caroline,
please, let me see you. At least let me talk to you. Life without you
is unthinkable.
A
heartfelt plea to win a woman back. It was almost Shakespearean. Only
the address wasn’t Stratford-upon- Avon, it was downtown Manhattan.
I slipped it back into the envelope.
Whose
life had I stumbled on? Where did he live, what did he do? Men
called, emailed, or sent text messages—they didn’t write letters,
and if they did, never on handmade paper with deckle edges, a
throwback to the fifteenth century.
The
writer had style. He was smooth, articulate. The wrappings of his
thoughts were as affecting as his words. Just thinking about him set
my mind reeling with the possibilities. Where did that leave me?
Captive.
Which
made no sense. I was a peeping tom, peering into someone else’s
emotional life. Still, he was a kindred spirit. He knew the
importance of putting things in the proper wrapping too. So never
mind Caroline who had tossed away the letter like a losing lottery
ticket; maybe he’d like to meet a woman of the cloth who judged
letters by their covers.
I
gazed out the bus window, forgetting my plans for the day. When I
remembered to check the street signs, the bus had passed the Met and
was approaching 96th Street. I got off, turned around, and walked the
three miles back to Murray Hill, as if it made perfect sense to ride
all the way uptown and then go directly back home without stopping
anywhere at all in between.
***
A
woman with a name that regularly appeared under photos of society
events called me to do a closet assessment. I usually shied away from
taking on clients outside the city, but something about her
commanding voice and her address at the shore intrigued me. In the
fall it was an easy two-and- a-half-hour trip to the Hamptons.
Neil
Young singing “Heart of Gold” made the claustrophobic drive
through the Midtown tunnel bearable. Then onto the sluggish Long
Island Expressway.
No
wonder locals call it the L-I-E. Before lunch I was in rural farm
country on local roads passing Quogue, all whitewashed and pure, a
heavenly haven for city escapees.
Her
house was about half an hour further. Southampton homes were
palatial, set further apart than in most other communities. The
compound overlooked the ocean and the bay on open beachfront with
acres of privacy. I followed the circular driveway to the sound of
gravel—or maybe diamonds—crunching beneath the tires. I got out
and stretched, glancing up to watch the seagulls’ ballet. The sea
air was misted with salt water and ocean perfume.
The
house was a two-story Greek revival flanked by heavy white columns.
The doorbell set off a round of barking like gunshots. A woman with
honey-colored hair, impeccable posture, and a waspish waist opened
the door. Two taut Rhodesian Ridgebacks, each almost half her height,
stood on either side of her, sentries staring up at me with shining
eyes. All they needed was Santa hats on their heads to make it a
perfect Christmas card photo.
“Stay,”
she commanded.
How
could I not dwell on the fact that the breed was intensely prey
driven? And there I was, wafting eau d’Harry, who’d sooner lick
another animal than eat it.
“I’m
Sage Parker,” I said, extending my hand.
“Mary
Alice Moriarity,” she said, taking it. “If the dogs bother you,
I’ll put them out back.”
One
of them leaned toward me and sniffed my crotch. I eased back.
“They’re gorgeous, but it might be better.” With the dogs out
in the yard, she joined me in the living room, a cavernous space with
chairs and couches color-coordinated to the hue of the sand. Out of
the corner of my eye, I saw her examining my outfit. I was prepared
for that. I never dressed casually. Following a brief exchange about
the trip and the weather, we got down to business. “How do we
begin?” she said.
“Let’s
go to your closet so I can get a feel for the kind of clothes you
wear.”
With
a nod, she led the way up a winding mahogany staircase covered with a
jewel-toned runner, vibrant despite the patina of Persian history.
“Do
you live here year-round?”
“Now I do.”
Help a woman with
her wardrobe and she’ll open her heart to you. As she takes off one
outfit and tries another, off comes the protective armor. She’ll
tell you not only how she feels about her body and sees herself but
also how she feels about her life—what she loves and hates, where’s
she’s been, and her hopes for the future. She’ll undress herself
for you, baring her soul.
Still,
it usually took more than the few seconds it takes to climb a flight
of stairs to get there. She glanced back at me briefly, head high and
defiant.
“My
husband moved out,” she said, with as much emotion as you’d
summon to discuss a chipped nail. Without another word, she strode
across the bedroom into a windowless space the size of a guest room.
She gestured to an adjacent closet that looked empty. “So I thought
now might be the time to start some image work.”
It’s
almost always about more than the clothes. On one level I was a
wardrobe consultant, on another a crisis counselor. “The whole
business of reassessing a wardrobe is often triggered by some major
change,” I said, looking through her rack of suits. “I call it an
SSE, or shape-shifting experience, meaning both the shape of your
body and your life.”
A
lock of hair sprang free from the short, neat style framing her pale
blue eyes and the arched brows that framed them. She smoothed it
back. Handsome
was
the word that came to my mind. Midforties, carefully dressed in
brown, brown, and brown—her slacks, a shell, a cardigan, the
signature Ferragamo flats. Dull, even frumpy. She needed more air,
ease, and style. I wanted to loosen her hair, push up the sleeves of
the sweater, give her an armful of bracelets, the right scarf, and
low-heeled boots to raise her up. Mary Alice needed contrast, less
structure, and for evening, clothes with more drama, maybe satin and
fur. I was thinking Ralph Rucci. She could look sexier, more sensual;
she had the bones. Right now she was like a carefully set table
without the flowers and food.
I
walked further into the custom closet with mahogany cabinetry and
antiqued brass fittings. Texas-sized, with an island in the middle
with narrow drawers for accessories. The Great Santini of closets,
organized with military precision, every garment on wide mahogany
hangers. Unimaginable to think of an off-center crease here. Not a
hemstitch would be loose nor a button missing. Where were the notes
detailing when each garment was worn and where?
Brown,
black, navy, charcoal, and dark green, like a patchwork of bleakness.
No brights, patterns, variation, or sensuality. High-end, but
bloodless. No doubt her husband left her for a cheesy blond who
dolled herself up in frilly pink chiffon. Someone who loosened his
tie and taught him to enjoy Dunkin’ Donuts, licking the sweet
grease off his fingers.
I
started out neutral. “So, how do you feel in color— bright
color?”
“Never
worn it.”
I
opened my tote bag and pulled out my cornflower-blue shawl, like a
magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Whenever I unfolded it, my
mother’s voice echoed in my head: If
your neck is warm, your whole body is warm. Health
lore said you covered the head to stay warm; still, I suspected she
was
on to something. “Try this on.”
Mary Alice wrapped it around
her shoulders and studied herself in the mirror before turning to me.
It brought out her eyes and enlivened her complexion.
“You
look reborn. The color’s perfect.”
“How
much do you want for it?”
I
could have scalped my two-hundred-dollar shawl for ten times that on
the spot. I shook my head. “This is show and tell. We’re not
shopping yet, but we’re going to be injecting some life into your
wardrobe—blue, lime, coral, yellow, pale pink.”
She
twitched with uncertainty. It took most women a while to get used to
what they hadn’t worn before. Imagine donning a new skin. For the
rest of the morning we moved through the hangers, making sure
everything fit properly. After the sixth pair of pants, she turned to
me, eyebrows raised. “I guess there’s no point in trying every—”
“Right.
I’m sure you would have chucked out anything
that
wasn’t right.”
Her
back stiffened suddenly. Her failed marriage was the elephant in the
room.
“I
can’t fix your life,”
I continued, shaking my head back and forth slowly, “but I can fix
your wardrobe—and
it’s a forward step.”
She
smiled more genuinely than before. We were beginning to connect.
