Over the bathroom tub hangs a small painting of a turn-of-the-20th-century high society woman in an orange silk off-the-shoulder dress, which matches the room's orange accents.
Tink came out of the bathroom recently, shaking his head. “Every time I see that painting, I have to laugh. Why do you like that?”
“Because,” I replied. “It reminds me of my David and that weekend in Newport.”
David would be the late David Ford, a man who was made a billionaire by Wall Street.
Newport would be Rhode Island, a place favored by the rich, including the Vanderbilts and Jackie Kennedy Onassis, who married the dashing President-to-be in the Catholic church there and whose family owned a large estate.
David’s wife, Pamela, had optioned a series of Christian books that she was passionate about turning into a series.
Somehow, Tink wound up on her radar, and she insisted he was the Producer for the job. The Fords owned many estates and penthouses, but David’s favorite was a historic property begun by streetcar magnate George Widener, who went down on the Titanic. His wife was ushered into a small boat, survived, and returned to Newport to finish the home.
Pamela had invited us repeatedly to Newport.
Finally, she called. “I’m sending two plane tickets. Come for Labor Day weekend.”
I have lived long enough to know when I am out of my league — and smart enough not to pretend I belong anywhere other than the rural South.
Of course, the good Lord always ensures I know my place. On Thursday, before we left on Friday, I was corralling a horse when a metal gate fell on my nose and made an ugly cut. As my friend Karen says, “It wasn’t purdy.” Make-up fell short of covering it.
When we arrived at the historic estate, David was waiting outside to welcome us. It was the stateliest house I’ve ever known anyone to live in.
Usually, I just visit these palaces on a tour ticket in London.
Miramar is 30,000 square feet on eight, cliffside acres overlooking the Atlantic coastline. As we crawled out of the limousine sent for us, David welcomed us graciously, and I quickly apologized for the huge cut across my nose.
He was reserved, a small silver-haired man in a seersucker suit. In his hand, he held up a clothes hanger with several ties draped on it.
“We are having dinner tonight at the Country Club. Men are required to wear a tie.”
Tink and I had a small skirmish when I insisted he throw a tie in his suitcase. He argued, “Why?” I replied, “It takes up no room, and you might need it.”
Tink replied proudly to David, “I brought a tie.”
“Excellent! We shall leave for dinner at six.”
Pamela was away until the next day when she was to join us. I walked into the mansion and couldn’t believe what I was seeing was where people lived.
We followed David, a board member of the Historical Board of Rhode Island, up the grand, winding, marble staircase as he proudly discussed the features of the historic home.
At the beautiful country club, where Jackie O. had dined hundreds of times, we sat at a table and watched the sea crash against the rocks. Pamela joined us the next day at a mansion, where David expertly guided us. It was in that historic museum/ mansion that I found the reproduced painting and purchased it for $87.
David had started out briskly courteous but was warming up to a woman who had been raised and lived differently than he did.
Pamela suggested that David take me for a walk the next day because “John and I have work to do.”
David, ever the proper gentleman, agreed. “Do you have walking shoes?”
“Yes,” I responded.
Next Week: How the billionaire and the country girl formed a partnership.
Ronda Rich is the bestselling author of St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her weekly newsletter.