The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [8]
“I’ll keep that in mind, Anna. So what’s new?”
“Cara! I cannot wait to tell you the latest story about Caroline. You are going to scream!”
“Lunch then?” Charlotte asked, steaming the milk beneath the nozzle of her new $1,000 coffee machine. “I’m looking for some Murano glass for my Russian client.”
“Certo! We will meet at Boulud, eh? And ti giuro, my news will make the whole trip uptown worth it!”
“I doubt it, Anna. But I’ll see you at noon.”
“Bacione, bella. See you then.”
Sitting at her kitchen table and soaking up the splendid river view, Charlotte took another sip from her cappuccino. The coffee machine had come “free” with her purchase of a ridiculously overpriced 19th century French commode. She’d recently acquired it from a young dealer for Pavel, her Russian client. After she’d admired it—the machine not the commode—in his shop, the dealer had sent it over as a “surprise” with a lovely note, complimenting her on her taste. “My taste for coffee?” she’d asked, smirking when she called to thank him. The piece itself had been so mercilessly restored only rappers and Russians like Pavel could love it.
Piling her dishes in the old Italian marble sink, Charlotte slowly ran her hands over its scarred, pitted surface. She’d bought the sink in Padua, probably the only time in her life she hadn’t haggled like hell. The Italian dealer was so astounded, he’d asked her why.
“Because I like to imagine a mother washing dishes in it,” she’d blushed. She was picturing the Italian farmhouse that she’d visited in the spring. This was after traveling over to check on a shipment of marble.
It was the sturdiness of the house that had nearly moved her to tears. There was no flash, nothing flimsy. Just thick plaster walls, heavy oak chairs, a great hearth, and smoothly worn tiled floors. Seated by her host at a long, wooden table, she’d sipped from a glass of rough red wine and watched his wife make the pasta. It was mesmerizing, the rhythm: cracking and separating the egg yolks, dropping them into peaks of soft white flour, folding and rolling the dough. It was a rhythm born of ritual, tradition and memory, Charlotte had thought wistfully.
Pointing towards the wall with her chin at the photographs of her three children, the woman seemed so infectiously happy, Charlotte was almost embarrassed. But this is why she’d forked over such an absurd price for the sink and even paid to have it shipped by air. She’d needed to have it near her, to be in touch with that kind of love.
The metamorphosis of Charlotte’s loft from a nondescript white space into a tiny jewel box of extravagant color and texture had been her own labor of love. She’d lacquered the floors in a high gloss eggshell white and scattered them with bright sapphire, ruby and emerald threaded tribal rugs. The walls were painted in deep shades of Prince purple and amethyst, poppy red and black, and lapis. There were also floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in both the living room and bedroom.
Some people might have found the small book-filled painted rooms, claustrophobic. But Charlotte liked the feeling of being enclosed. When she pulled the heavy Italian brocade and velvet curtains tightly shut at night and heard the clunk of wooden rings on the long poles, the sound reminded her that she was safe. Anna, the only person other than Paul who had ever been invited inside, had been ecstatic when Charlotte offered a tour. “It’s divine, cara. Like living inside a cozy embrace,” she’d said.
Quickly checking the time while drying her Herend cup, Charlotte washed down the counter. She’d have a fast shower and review Darryl’s sketches. Darryl, an up-and-coming fashion designer married to billions, had hired Charlotte to redo the library and five of the bedrooms in her new apartment on Park. There were some photos from a gallery in Chelsea that she’d promised to drop off, too. It was unreal. The family owned six, no, seven houses and they were “camping out” on the 32nd floor of the Carlyle during renovations.
5
At 11:45 a.m., she was hailing a cab. “It’s Monday.