She was wearing a dark blue sweater, probably silk, with a dark blue skirt that extended to midcalf, showing a bit of her thin ankle above the tops of her delicate blue sandals.
“Like Deni, I was married to a much older man, and a very rich one. Unlike her, I had inherited a lot of money, too-an automobile fortune-well, automobile parts, actually.” She smiled at me. “And Lowell had sort of put Deni in my hands, to help polish her up a bit. I was ten years older than she-I’m forty-nine now-but we became friends, best friends. I’m sure you know how important that is to a woman.”
“I can’t imagine going through life without one,” I said. Nina Baum, my Wellesley roommate, had taught me everything there was to know about friendship and loyalty. And even though she lived in Los Angeles and Joan Stafford was spending more and more time in Washington, I counted on the intimacy of our relationships to bolster me through the sometimes dark days and nights of my chosen work. “May I ask you to tell me about Deni-what you know, as well as what you think was going on recently?”
“Certainly. Would you care for something to drink?”
“No, thanks.” I watched as she sipped at a glass of white wine.
“At the very beginning, it was as though Deni had walked into the pages of a fairy tale. Lowell was amazingly seductive, and Denise was like a magnificent jewel that he wanted to place in the center of his crown. His dinner parties were legendary-has anyone told you about them?”
I shook my head in the negative.
“Not that it was his idea, really, but he copied a page out of Gertrude Stein’s ingenious recipe for entertaining. The living room-perhaps you’ve seen it-was hung with old masters and works from many of the greatest artists who ever lived. Then, with a handful of the richest collectors at the ready, he’d sprinkle the guest list with whoever was hottest in the art world-and seat the artist opposite his own paintings. Brilliant, wasn’t it? Those often surly and sullen personalities couldn’t help but smile as they were reflected in their own canvases and assured of almost immediate sales.
“Imagine at one table having Ellsworth Kelly, Keith Haring, David Hockney-all sitting amidst their creations while they debated each other about style and talent as well. Those were the days that Deni loved.”
“How long did life at the Caxtons’ go on like that?”
“Quite a good while, actually. Beyond Deni’s youth and exuberance, Lowell seemed to love everything about her, not least of all how eager she was to learn everything there was to know about his life’s passion. She was a tireless student, and though she had an untrained eye, her hunches could be brilliant. Lowell called her ‘my budding alchemist.’ First, he tempted her with really fine paintings that he’d search out in the ch‚teaux of Bordeaux and the palaces of the once-rich in Venice. She’d a gift for knowing there was something lurking beneath the crusted dust and oil, and she would coax Lowell to take the gamble.
“More often than not she was right. They came home with a Canaletto and two amazing Delacroix that way. Stole them, in a sense. Paid practically nothing for the works, then turned around and sold them for a fortune to several of the Caxton stable-Lowell’s devoted followers. He was less amused when she turned the same talent on the current art scene. He thought she was wasting her time.”
“Chicken or egg, Ms. Seven, which came first? Do you know how the marriage began to unravel or come apart?”
“That’s a bit too quaint a description. I’d say it came to a screeching halt.
“It was when Lowell had gone to Bath, a year ago this past June. There was to be an auction for the estate of Gwendolyn, Lady Wenbotham. She was the ninety-four-year-old dowager who’d owned a fabulous collection of portraits-lots of minor royalty and major military figures. Lowell and Deni were feuding, rather mildly, because she was too busy to go with him on the trip. Not only did he value her eye, but he wanted her there to show off at all the social events-Ascot, if they could get away early enough, staying on for Wimbledon, dinners, and balls. Kind of thing she usually loved to do.”
“What kept her away?”
“I’m not sure, really.” Ms. Seven stopped, as though considering whether or not to tell me what she guessed had been the reason. “She was vague even with me at the time.”
“Another man?”
“No, up to then she’d been quite faithful to Lowell. So he left for England-did the tennis and the horse races-and Deni was quite aloof for those weeks. Finally, she called and said that if I would go along with her, she’d surprise Lowell in Bath. We packed our trunks and off we went. I had a driver pick us up at Heathrow the morning of the auction and take us directly to the Royal Crescent. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I do.” I had stayed at the charming old hotel when one of Joan Stafford’s first plays was staged there before opening at the Lyric Theatre in London.
“Denise went to the desk and announced that she was Mrs. Caxton and would like the key to the room. I had one of those suites facing the crescent, but to get to Lowell’s room she had to pass through that quiet little garden, where half of the guests were having high tea.
“Five minutes later I heard Deni yelling as though she were standing in my very room. Language I doubt many of the hotel guests had heard before. Lowell, as I later learned in exquisite detail from Deni, was in the middle of some kind of acrobatic sexual maneuver with Gwendolyn’s great-granddaughter, a twenty-five-year-old local beauty who was no doubt trying to up the ante on the family fortune. She had captured Lowell’s attention and was hoping to keep his bids high that evening.”
“Any point in asking what happened next?”
“Deni used more four-letter words than I thought I’d ever find in Webster’s. The young lady came downstairs wearing a hotel bathrobe, and Deni tossed her underwear out thewindow, probably landing it on someone’s scones and crumpets. Gwendolyn’s eighty-nine-year-old sister, Althea, watched the whole episode unfold from her wheelchair in the middle of the courtyard.
“When Lowell stormed through there, fully dressed, about fifteen minutes later, Althea lifted herself up with her cane, reached it out to stop him in his path, and announced for all the family friends to hear, ‘I applaud your courage, Mr. Caxton. Must have been something like trying to fit an oyster into a parking meter, having your way with my great-grandniece? Lovely to have met you. Sorry you can’t stay for the evening.’ ”
“He didn’t go to the sale, after all that?”
“No. In fact, he had our driver take him directly to the airport for a flight back to New York.”
“And Deni?”
“She and I went to the auction. She was furious, and determined to do something to show what he had taught her professionally. Everyone in the room, of course, was impressed that she showed up at all. To them it was pure American moxie. She dressed elegantly, beamed at everyone-flirting with the men and being unusually courteous to the women- and focused her attention on every item in the sale.”
“How’d she do?” I asked.
“Like a dream. She bought a portrait of the Marchesa Cecchi for sixty-seven thousand dollars. It had been unattributed in the catalogue. But Deni brought it back to her restorer, Marco Varelli-have you encountered him yet? He’s a genius. And after he cleaned it up, they actually found Sir Joshua Reynolds’s signature under a couple of centuries of grime. She sold that piece for more than a million and a half. And just for fun, she bought a small piece of garden statuary, some kind of wood nymph if I remember correctly. I don’t think it cost her two thousand dollars.”
Marilyn Seven took a breath, put out one cigarette and lighted another, and reminded the waiter to bring her another glass of Saint-Véran.