*****
Blasting through several yellow lights, my cabbie gets me to the spa in record time. I quickly tap the display screen in front of me and run my credit card through the reader. I added on a nice tip because he was quick and quiet, my favorite type of cab driver.
Approaching the mid-rise building, I notice the signature red doors I remember from my youth have been replaced by heavy, clear glass. A small sign posted by the entrance is the only identifying remnant of the infamous red doors.
After entering, I breeze past the lobby doorman and walk into the open elevator awaiting me. I press the button for my floor, run my fingers through my hair, and adjust my simple black dress and gray scarf as I’m whisked to the upper floors.
On the eighth floor, I stroll inside the confines of the luxurious spa. A quick glance at my reflection on the wall tells me why I’m here. My hair needs some TLC—I am several months overdue for a haircut. Actually I can’t remember the last time it was trimmed and shaped, something I won’t confess to my well-groomed mother.
I prefer a no-fuss routine when it comes to glamour. I tend to be a minimalist type of girl. With the exception of my red lipstick and mascara, I only wear makeup when I’m going out somewhere special. I'm amazed how lax my beauty routine became during the fifteen years I lived in Paris. One would think it's a city of flawlessly made-up faces, but in actuality the term au naturel applies to the styles there.
The beautiful young woman at the reception desk ends her call and looks up at me with a perfect, broad smile anyone would envy.
“Hello,” she greets me warmly and glances over me with a discerning eye. “May I help you?”
I want to be snarky in response to her judging appraisal and say, “What do you think?” But I refrain and plaster on a fake smile, New York style. “Yes, I’m Kathryn Delcour. I have an appointment today. I’m meeting my mother, Ava Swanson. I believe she’s already here.”
She hustles from behind the tall counter that separates us; obviously the mention of my mother’s name can move mountains—or at least put her small butt in motion. The Vanderbilt women are practically founding members of this spa. Other high-end establishments litter the Upper East Side and midtown, but no one does the complete head-to-toe beauty treatment like the Red Door. Hair, nails, and makeup, the Red Door is a one-stop salon for a special day or occasion.
“Yes, Mrs. Delcour. Your mother is here already, and I’m to escort you to the hair salon.” I can’t help but notice her staring at my unruly black locks falling over my shoulders.
“Thank you,” I say as she leads me through the hallways covered with shiny white tiles. The décor is clean, minimal, and awash in soothing lighting. The walls are rounded curves which give the path to the salon a serpentine feel, like we’re walking through a maze. It’s a quiet and peaceful effect as we leave the harshness of the city behind.
We stop abruptly before an arched doorway, and the familiar sound of blow dryers and chatter comes from beyond the entrance. An older woman approaches us and smiles warmly at me. I return with a smile of my own.
“Hello, I’m Adrienne. Are you Mrs. Delcour?” She gracefully extends her hand to me but doesn’t try for the traditional handshake. Instead she moves to my side and places her hand on my upper arm and pats me in a comforting gesture. I’m impressed she knows me by name; it’s been well over fifteen years since I’ve been inside these walls, and I was a Swanson then.
“Yes, I’m Mrs. Delcour.”
“How are you today? Good, I hope, and ready to be pampered.” She doesn’t show any sign of judgment at the current state of my hair, unlike the attendant who’s disappeared and likely returned to her desk.
“My hair is crying for help.” I follow with a little laugh and hold up the ends of my hair.
“You have beautiful raven hair, Mrs. Delcour. Enviable, really.” I’m confident her compliment is sincere, and I happily follow her through the archway. I see my mother a few feet ahead of us, and it looks as if her stylist is close to having her hair perfectly coifed.
“Hello, Mother.” I look at her reflection in the mirror in front of her as I speak my greetings.
“Kathryn, darling!” My mother holds her hand up to stop the stylist in his labors. She stands up from the brown leather chair and wraps her arms tight around me. She’s always shown her love to me in an open and warm way without any societal pretense, unlike so many other mothers I knew growing up Manhattan. I never once doubted her unconditional love for me.
I hug her tightly and pull back a few inches, not quite leaving her loving arms. “You’re looking beautiful as always, Mother. How are things going with the event? Everything in place?”
We’re at the spa today in preparation for the annual Swanson Foundation fundraiser. It’s the most important night for my mother’s charitable work, where monies are raised from some of New York City’s wealthiest residents. My mother began the foundation after my father’s sudden death when I was nineteen. I know my father would be so proud of what she’s done to help those in need in Africa. As a wealthy, attractive widow, she could’ve spent her days going to lunches, shopping, and planning her next getaway with girlfriends, but she chose to put her vast fortune to good use. Her money and energy have been focused on others, not herself. She is definitely my role model in life.
“We are as ready as we’ll ever be. Natalie is great at helping put out any last-minute fires. Nothing has turned into an inferno yet.” She winks at me.
My mother remains the heart and soul of the foundation with her optimistic personality while Natalie, her executive assistant, wears the mantle of a serious businesswoman. I’m not sure Natalie knows how to smile, although she could herd a few hundred cats, if needed.
“Good, Mother. I don’t think there’s a more capable assistant than Natalie. Now you can relax with me this afternoon.”
“You’re right about that. Natalie’s priceless to me. I love being the face of the foundation, but the numbers and minutiae quite often bore me to tears. Because of her, I can spend time with my lovely daughter. It’s been years since you’ve been in New York on Foundation night.” My mother gives my arm a loving squeeze before she sits back down in her stylist’s chair where his eager hands go back to teasing and setting her shiny gold locks.
“It’s been years. Before I met Jean-Paul.” I hardly ever mention his name around her, and I can tell she wants to comfort me. The look in her eyes radiates compassion back at me. I tilt my head and smile weakly, knowing it’s time for me to move on with my life. Jean-Paul would want me to.
“Where are my manners?” My mother laughs as she twists in her chair and catches the eye of her stylist. “Marcus, this is my lovely Kathryn. We used to come here regularly when she was a teen. I believe her first trip with me was on her thirteenth birthday.”
“Enchanté,” Marcus says in a distant French accent before gently taking my right hand, raising it to his face, and then brushing his lips against my knuckles. The look he’s giving me oozes sex. I imagine he’s a favorite at the spa.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I respond back with a chuckle in my voice. He stands beside me, rather puffed up and appearing quite proud of himself.
“Mrs. Swanson, where have you been hiding this beauty?” At his comment, I can’t contain my eye roll while glancing in my mother’s direction.
“She’s been away in Paris for years, but I’m hoping she’s back to stay now. She’s started a new business here as well.” My mother’s pride is evident in her glowing smile. “It’s a rather unique business, too.
I know this conversation isn’t over when Marcus asks, “Oh, really? What type of business is it?”
The question needs to be answered, and I decide to give sweet, conceited Marcus something to chew on. “I teach a modern version of Tantra, the ancient practice of lovemaking. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
Marcus’s mouth drops open, and I fear the comb and teasing brush in his hands may soo
n follow. He peruses my figure as I’m sure he’s trying to figure me out or imagine me naked, teaching my craft. I glance over at my mother who’s quietly enjoying my little show. Yes, I’m totally her daughter.
Before Marcus can respond or close his mouth, I feel a hand on my arm. I turn to see Adrienne at my side.
“Mrs. Delcour, your stylist is ready for you now.” She politely gestures for me to follow her.
“See you in a few minutes, Mother.” I bend down and kiss my mother on the cheek before leaving a stunned Marcus behind. I can’t help but laugh as I follow Adrienne to my appointed chair. I truly enjoyed toying with Marcus and can only imagine what’s going on in his mind or what he’s asking my poor mother.
Chapter 4