Best Friends Forever

By Jean Sanders Torrey

When sophisticated Texas oil heiress Catharine Houston, who had led a high-profile, luxurious life of wife and mother, comes to Beverly Hills after her divorce and meets elegant Elizzabeth Brighton, who had lived an exciting, glamorous life of a model and actors wife with heartbreak of her own, the two join forces in their search for appropriate new husbands.

Bolstered by Catharines wealth and sense of adventure and Elizzabeths celebrity connections, the two look for love in all the right places, including London, New York, Huston and St. Croix. The shared master plan is to meet the right man and live happily ever after but on the way, they recreate themselves, make up for lost time and live life to its fabulous fullest.

After involvement with a number of Mr. Rights which are ultimately wrong for the right reasons, the search continues but the sustaining relationship is the one they forge with each other as best friends.

With this roman a clef, Jean Sanders Torrey follows her nonfiction success, Why Men Marry and Why Men Dont with a loosely disguised glimpse into the personal world of glamour, passion and survival. In Best Friends Forever, she explores the deep bond of friendship between two very different modern women who under the skin, deep in the valley of values, are soul sisters. They share happiness, heartbreak, hilarity and hope over the rocky course of several decades.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456723354

Jean Sanders Torrey

Jean Sanders Torrey is a former fashion model, Fashion Editor of Movieline magazine and social columnist for Beverly Hills Today. She was also a personal shopper at Saks Fifth Avenue for celebrity clientele. Born and raised in Kentucky, she lost her Southern accent at Northwestern University without loosing her Southern graces. As a professional horseman, she taught Brooke Shields, Farrah Fawcet, Joanne Woodward and other actors to ride and jump. She admits to being emotionally addicted to daily workouts and her sophisticated sense of humor is well exemplified by her nonfiction success Why Men Marry and Why Men Don’t.

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© 2011 Jean Sanders Torrey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/17/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-2334-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-2333-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-2335-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011900137

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are purely products of the author’s imagination and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people is unintended. In the few instances where well-known or real names are used, the related characters, incidents, or dialogues are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict any actual people or events. Best Friends Forever is a dimly veiled inspired recounting of the fictional lives and adventures of Catharine and Elizzabeth, two provocative protagonists; keeping in mind that novelists lie for a living.

Dedication: To dear Richard Gully … although denied his rightful peerage, he was the last personification of the civilized old-school English gentleman. He combined class, culture and charm, along with the glamour, prestige and excitement of Hollywood’s Golden Age, but did not suffer fools gladly. There will never be another.

A special nod to the charming RHM, who inadvertently gave me the precious gift of time, that contributed to the cathartic impetus and resolve to finish writing this book.

Author’s caveat … In fairness, to secure her complete co-operation and to continue our valued friendship, Catharine may at will write her own book, contribute her remembrances and points of view for consideration, which can be guaranteed to differ from mine.

But oh! The blessing it is to have a friend to whom one can speak fearlessly … with whom one’s deepest as well as one’s most foolish thought come out simply and safely. Oh, the comfort … of feeling safe with a person-having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik in A Life for a Life. 1866

At the Starting Gate: 1985

Watch out world. Here they come. Two tall slender, sophisticated single women, a synergy of sisters by design, joining forces and anxiously awaiting whatever the fates, no matter how fickle, have in store.

Catharine Houston, a striking dark brunette with hazel almond eyes, fashionable fringe bangs and shiny shoulder length hair that bounced as she walked, wore head to foot black, topped with a full length flowing black diamond mink coat which did little to hid her ample curves and swinging hips that seem to have a mind of their own. As a woman of privilege, she is intrinsically entitled to wear her dazzling flamboyant Texas size diamonds, displayed in all the right places, that seemed to flash off and on like blinding, blinking neon lights as she moved. In striking uncalculated contrast, Elizzabeth Brighton is athletically angular, with a paler shade of cream skin, long vanilla blond hair pulled back and twisted into a classic chignon, which accented her blue eyes. She more than held her own in a flattering ankle length longhaired white Arctic Fox belted trench coat, gliding in long graceful strides like an Ice Princess surveying her subjects. Her style was monochromatic beige all over conservative and understated, and an awareness of being grossly underdressed in the fine jewelry department gave her a grandiose goal of upgrade from pearls.

Another difference, oblivious to all but a few in the know, was that their equally elegant and chic clothes came from distinctly different sources. Catharine was attracted to the new and out of the ordinary in fashion as well as in other phases of her life. She could well afford to pay any price for her extensive and expensive wardrobe and she did.

Elizzabeth couldn’t and didn’t but she had taste—and valuable contacts. She could dress well within her dreams and above her means because as a model, she knew the ins and outs, the who’s and how’s, and the when and where’s of the flighty and fanatic fashion industry. She finessed finds and with the option of discounted, reduced and wholesale prices made the most of limited funds. Her professional and social relationships with many of the designers and manufacturers gave her entree to the samples that fit perfectly and were a full season ahead of the prêt-a-port retail market. Many were exceptional originals created only as excessive and overly expensive showpieces for the catwalk to titillate the jaded press and were never intended to be produced and sold. Both designers and manufacturers liked and were good to Elizzabeth. They knew that although she was no longer twenty-four, her waist was. Not only did she make anything she wore look great, but with every compliment she always credited the label. And if absolutely necessary, she was not above begging and borrowing for a very special occasion.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter One

From the Beginning

Catharine Houston, who responded to Catie only to her siblings, and I, Elizzabeth Brighten, who chose not to answer to any abbreviated name, had met through a mutual friend, the celebrated fashion photographer and opportunist Jeffrey Rushing. Catharine was a Houston oil heiress whose family had claim to a Fortune 400 listing. She had recently leased a landmark estate in Beverly Hills designed by famed architect Paul Williams in the 1920’s, for an Oscar winning director whose name no one seems to remember. Jeffrey thought Catharine should have a safe and savvy Beverly Hills girlfriend and sensed that we would have a lot in common, primarily horses. He came to rue the day.

Jeffrey and I had met professionally a few years ago when I needed a portrait photograph. He was almost tall, blondish and oozing with practiced charm. We became social acquaintances, though never quite friends. I had often been on the cover of fashion magazines, but a decade later, after a self-imposed graceful and grateful exit to train horses for the rich and famous, Horses Magazine offered me their cover. It was to feature Regent Street, a magnificent bay thoroughbred Hunter owned by my client, pianist Peter Nero’s wife Peggy. It would be wonderful publicity for Far West Farms Riding School, my new horse training business. I was out of touch with the fickle fashion industry, but my longtime friend, Terry Miller, as an international fashion trend forecaster, was still in the thick.

"Terry, it’s Elizzabeth. I need a fashion photographer for a color shot of a handsome thoroughbred horse and me for the cover of Horses magazine. It’s a prestige magazine and I’ll need him to do his magic."

Jeffrey Rushing would be my first choice. He probably knows zilch about horses but he wouldn’t have to. He’s the best.

The publisher of Horses Magazine was pleased and the editor felt that it was one of their very best covers.

Catharine and Jeffrey had met socially-cute while he was in Houston on assignment for a let’s-do-Texas type photo shoot for Vogue. Ignoring the bountiful bevy of beautiful models available–Texas has more than it’s share–Jeffrey, through those in the know, put out a soft casting call for a stylish socially prominent, youngish oil heiress to grace the fashion pages with class and sass. He then promptly fell head over heels in lust, seducing the newly divorced, drop-dead gorgeous former Ambassador’s wife, and self-servingly encouraged her to spread her social wings and spend more time on the West Coast. Bringing her son Brady to Los Angeles for the 1984 Olympics originally gave Catharine the distancing from Huston that she needed and a local love affair gone wrong and long over had extended her stay. Jeffrey mistakenly believed that he was her reason for living but Catharine knew that he was not the right man, but the man for right now.

At Jeffrey’s prompting, I had invited the unlikely twosome to be my guests at the popular place-to-be on Saturday-night, the professional Polo Matches at LA Equestrian Center. We met in the bustling see-and-be-seen private Club House for a pre-game dinner of the most lavish menu this side of Beverly Hills, prepared by St. Germain’s Chef to the Stars Patrick Terrill .

When little-did-he-know Jeffrey introduced us, it was an instant spontaneous friendship and our girl-talk gushed with pauses only for polite responses to servers and smiles at congenial passers-by. Catharine’s friendly Texas accent and down-home colloquialisms sealed a dyed-in-the-wool Southern kinship and were music to my homesick Kentucky bred ears. Our conclusion was that we must be sisters and one of us was stolen by the gypsies. The rapport was spontaneous. Within minutes, we spoke in shorthand, finished each other’s sentences and shared a premonition that as two "between-husbands women" who genuinely loved men, we were fated to uncharted waters. Even with superlatives, the possibilities would be understated.

The commonality was that we were both single thirty-something women, who were newly available after more years of marriage than we cared to count. Catharine was a celebrating delighted divorcee and I was a self-proclaimed delusive widow. When asked if I was married, I often replied tongue-in-cheek, No, my husband is departed. The questioner assumed that I meant died, muttered something to comfort me in my bereavement and changed the subject. What I really meant was that he left me. But that’s a tale to be told later.

Our non-stop conversation overshadowed the fabulous meal that came and went without our awareness. It wasn’t until the server asked if he could clear the table that I realized that Catharine had been ignoring the fruits and vegetables and concentrating of the meat and requested a double portion without a hint of embarrassment. Aside from the fact that she was left handed and I was right handed, it was the first difference I noticed, since I tend to push aside the meat to make room for more salad and often order a second serving. When Catharine asked for ice to cool her decaffeinated coffee and I sent my regular coffee back because it wasn’t hot enough, our discerning waiter recognized the dilemma and brought two individual silver pots, with the decaffeinated clearly marked. It started the trend.

Another obvious glimpse of the many soon to be discovered differences in traits and tastes was reflected in our speech patterns. Conversation with anyone about anything was comfortable and constant with me, while Catharine spoke slowly, deliberately, and often paused thoughtfully before responding. Not to be deterred, we developed a synchronized symbiotic rhythm and just took turns. But soon Catharine’s practiced guard was down and we chatted in horsy vernacular, a knowing language of its’ own, about her racing and breeding of Quarter Horses and my training and showing Thoroughbreds.

Horses are just humans in horse suits and as different as you and I.

I absolutely agree.

This adrenaline-laced tête-à-tête, interrupted only by Jeffrey’s periodical feeble attempts to contribute to the conversation by verbally wedging his way in, was strictly female frivolity and fast-paced fun. The futility of his look at me, look at me attempts amused us, which didn’t do a lot for his already fragile ego. He may have regretted the day that he introduced the two new best friends, but we celebrated the occasion. It wasn’t until the horn sounded for the start of the polo matches an hour and a half later, that we realized that poor pouting neglected Jeffrey was missing, and had taken care of the check, like the gentleman he was, on his way out.

What a pair we were, so full of ourselves as we slowly sauntered to our seats in our tall skinny stiletto boots. With the LA Equestrian Center Polo Matches’ boisterous crowd as a fitting backdrop, we were knowingly giddy and acutely aware of the attention that we attracted. We enjoyed every moment of it a whole lot more than we should have.

Catharine, these are my box seats, the four on the front row next to the Press Box.

Great location.

Instinctively we settled in the two center seats leaving an empty seat on each side, as an invitation to the world, paraphrasing Bette Davis in All About Eve, " …come aboard, buckle your seat belts and hang on." As the exciting, crowd pleasing second chucker of the match ended, our flamboyant waiter magically appeared and kneeling to not block the view, he cooed,

And what will you two delirious darlings desire to drink?

It was chilled champagne for Catharine and steaming cappuccino for me. While seemingly incidental, it was another indication of our differences in tastes. When he returned, he served with his customary flowery flair. I signed the tab, amply including a generous tip for the doting waiter. It was the first and last check that Catharine ever permitted me to pay.

We were destined to be best friends. We were a matched pair, a team without a competitive bone in our collective bodies. We had no reason to. Catharine and I saw life from entirely different perspectives, each contributing possibilities instead of probabilities. We had polar opposite interests and tastes in fellows, fashion, fragrance, food, films and fitness. The one "f" word that we did agree on was fun. Under the skin, deep in the valley of values, we are soul sisters and predestined to be best friends.

I had had a best friend. My husband, Roffe had been my very best friend and I was his. We loved being together and seldom spent time apart. But if we did, we talked on the phone three or four times a day. We shared everything and could talk about anything and did. He understood my fears and shared my joys. We complimented and completed each other. My female friends and I had slowly drifted apart emotionally only because my husband was my love and the center of my life. I was up for the occasional bridal and baby shower and often organized the girls night out and spa days, but these ladies-only sprees were for fun. I had girlfriends but I didn’t need another best friend–I had Roffe.

A girlfriend once said, I want to tell you something but you must promise not to tell Roffe. There was no hesitation, I can’t promise you that, so please don’t tell me. I was not only faithful, I was loyal.

Not having children to divide our time and attention allowed us to be closer than many couples and since neither of us had family nearby–that too contributed to our mutual dependency on each other. We thrived until we didn’t. I thought that we had no secrets from each other, until it proved to be untrue. When I lost Roffe, I lost not only my husband but also my best friend. It had been so long since I had had a best girlfriend that I didn’t know that I needed one or wanted one until I had one. Timing is everything.

When the polo match was over, we weren’t ready for the evening to end. We were wound-up and having entirely too much fun. It was the beginning of a pattern that was generally generated with Catharine asking, Now what shall we do? We were Thelma and Louise in Manolo Blahnik stilettos. We were on the same wavelength and both genuinely felt badly about poor Jeffrey’s bruised ego.

At no time have either of us ever been intentionally mean. It was not in our natures to be unnecessarily cruel. Although there was one particular time that I’m not proud of and will confess to at a later time which will clear my conscience and contribute to another chapter. Catharine’s motivation for being nice was a studied behavior in preventing retaliation but my motivation was less dramatic. I just don’t like discord.

Catharine suggested that I leave my car which I referred to as the gentleman, a mint condition ten year old 190E Mercedes black-beauty sedan, at the Equestrian Center and that she call Jeffrey to make nice, and ask him to meet us for a late drink at the Westwood Marquis Hotel, an elegant under-the-radar boutique hotel. She phoned from the waiting limousine that had taken sulking Jeffrey home earlier and had returned for her.

Sweetie, she purred, I’m so sorry that you felt left out. We were thoughtless to monopolize the conversation with girlie stuff and we want to make it up to you. Please come join us at the hotel for a drink.

He answered in a sleepy snit, pouted and declined, but she petted and pampered and after promising a private dinner date the next evening, once again he was willingly under her spell. I noted the conversation as an impressive lesson in feminine finesse.

I had always appreciated the attention I attracted, but as a bookend with Catharine, it was a head-turning double dose. At the hotel, we sat at a table for two, to exclude uninvited company but near the piano and watched the men watching us. The curious men looked at us as an exacta, and according to personal preference, choose genetically either the blond or the brunette. The men who fancied brunettes looked Catharine over and eventually zoomed in on the dazzling pear shaped seventeen-karat diamond ring wearing her finger. It was too big not to be real. The gentlemen, who fantasized about all blondes, concentrated on me. They sent the waiters as emissaries with the tried and true, The gentleman would like to buy you ladies a drink? Each was declined, but we did applaud the ingenuity of one creative man who offered to buy us a song. As a passing fancy with newfound power, we entertained ourselves considering what provocative tune to choose.

Catharine considered, "How about In The Mood?"

I cheekily contributed, "Or Are You Lonesome Tonight?"

After a few smiles, we gave up without finding even one contemporary or standard title that wouldn’t have a connotative double entendre somewhere in the lyrics, to be interrupted as an engraved invitation to join us. Even God Bless America would have been a welcome mat to any military man, past and present or any man who could claim instant patriotism. The amused pianist was wonderful, waiting and willing but … no thank you. We had no interest in being picked-up. It wasn’t then, isn’t now and never will be our style. We always chose our men; the men just didn’t always know it.

Chapter Two

Catharine’s Back Story

When we met for a late brunch at the Westwood Marquis the morning after the Polo Match, the conversation picked up where it had left off as if we were old friends catching up. By the end of the previous night’s exciting and enlightening evening, I knew that Catharine was the unexpected late-life child of older parents and that her brother was twenty years older and her sister was eighteen years older, both away from home with lives of their own.

My father, Royal Huston got to make all the rules and my mother Constance, periodically ill and perpetually withdrawn, eventually just gave up and went to bed.

Catharine grew up emotionally isolated and often lonely although constantly surrounded by well meaning people. She was the center of attention and loved by devoted loyal, some second generation, family employees. Raised by live-in nannies, served meals by the maids, indulged with snacks by the cook, chauffeured by a driver and schooled by tutors with little personal attention from her aging and emotionally unavailable and perhaps disinterested parents. She was accustomed to household and business staff weaving in and out, and relatives and friends were constant drop-ins and house guests. The day-to-day child rearing duties were delegated to a devoted staff and everyone was overly protective of this solitary sweet little girl.

I was taught to always be alert for fear of attempted kidnapping, and not to talk about myself to anyone. To never volunteer personal information or answer question, no matter how seemingly innocuous.

She preferred having company while dining, traveling, shopping, salon visits, medical appointments and even menial tasks of packing, planning entertaining and dressing. The pattern was well practiced and being alone was unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Catharine outsourced her life with personal assistants, and people and pets were constantly under foot. She liked and needed companionship and if unavailable, the phone became her extension to companionship.

She spent the year after high school graduation touring Europe with her mother, and an astute art and history tutor as a companion. Catherine had only recently come to believe and understand that her calculating and manipulative father who in declining health, had discouraged any and all high school boyfriends that he found unsuitable as husband material for an early marriage. He believed that a naïve unmarried young heiress, with a lavish trust fund without parents to protect her, could be in jeopardy.

So the day after her eighteenth birthday, she walked down the aisle, more excited about the pageantry of the extravagant wedding than the man she was to marry, and became the blushing bride of her second-choice high school sweetheart, Lex Sumner. What better than to marry her off to a suitable husband of her father’s choosing and conditions, so that he could hand over his parental responsibility and protect her financial future before his impending death. The managed marriage was rocky from the beginning.

When Lex was mean, I would leave him, take my son Brady and go home for emotional refuge but my father would scold me and send me back to make the best of it.

Her mother experienced a painful and lingering illness before her death. Although Mrs. Houston had the best medical and physical care that money could buy, it was devotion and comfort that Catharine unselfishly provided. No longer wanting to bother or burden her ailing mother with her personal marital problems, she buried them deep down inside and accepted her lot.

She spent every available hour sitting with her mother as her health waned, making the most of what time they had left together. What pleased her mother most and brought a smile to her drawn lips was listening to Catharine playing the piano, which had been brought to her bedroom from the living room. Catharine had a gift, a rare talent of reproducing any piece that she heard. She had an endless repertoire and played beautifully.

I was playing Sleep, Gently Sleep, the lullaby from Johannes Braham’s’ Volkskinderlieder, when I looked over at my sleeping mother and saw her last smile. I closed the piano and I’ve never played that piece again. My baby was born and my mother died in the same year. I was twenty.

Catharine dutifully returned to the imposed routine of the loving obedient wife and mother without a whine or a whimper. The hostility lay dormant, deep in her subconscious and festered until much later in life, the skilled psychologist Dr. Simonian gently unearthed the pain and helped her plant flowers where the weeds had overgrown. Though her father no doubt meant to protect her, the only good thing to come out of her marriage was her son Brady. Catharine’s description of her therapy sessions reinforced my suspicion that I would be a poor candidate for analysis. I have a public persona but I’m a private person. I would be incapable of sharing my innermost thoughts. I know that I would tell the truth as I choose to see it, glossing over any negativity and would be more interested in coloring and flavoring the stories with humor to entertain the therapist than in telling the truth and nothing but the truth.

To the outside world, Catharine was a beautiful and intelligent woman, from a well-known and wealthy family with deep roots and respectability. She had married a local young, handsome, charismatic man, and seemed to have it all. Her obvious talents included all those expected of the women of the privileged classes. She decorated and managed two homes, doted on her son, effortlessly gave elaborate parties, was well traveled and politically active. If that wasn’t enough for any wonder woman, she also sat on the board of the family oil business, flew a plane, rode and showed horses, herded cattle by helicopter on the family ranch, could shoot any gun and it goes without saying, skied well.

My Turn …

Elizzabeth, Jeffrey told me that you spell your name with two zees. Is it a family name?

"No, the story is that as a child when I was learning to write my name, I wrote Elizzabeth with two zees. When my mother corrected my spelling and said, ‘Elizabeth only has one zee,’ I thought for a moment and said, One zee isn’t enough.

I genuinely wanted to share my back-story with Catharine but I seldom if never, talked about my roots. I always referred to my growing up years in vague generalities and skimpy references. I’d had a high profile public life but in my personal life, I was almost painfully private. An obvious reason is that I consistently lied about my age and couldn’t remember how many years I shaved off the last time. As proof of this pudding, my sister Anna, who is nine years younger, once sent me a birthday card that began on the cover with Happy Birthday to My Little Sister and inside she wrote, You have lied about your age so long that I have passed you.

I admit to a selective memory and was aptly and artfully capable of reinventing myself, rewriting my history, creating my own reality and happily residing there. I was also characteristically imaginative and incapable of telling a story the same way twice. I embroidered, exaggerated and embellished, not to change or cloud the facts but to make the telling more interesting, to entertain, to titillate. Although figuratively factual, I viewed life’s events as fruitful fodder for the narrative. This practiced creative story telling served me well later as a fiction writer and a novelist. The art of writing about an experience is secretly sweet and allows me to slow or stop time, savor the moment and tell it in my own personal style.

I hesitated to talk about my family background because it came across sounding pompously Pollyannaish, too good to be true and more importantly, no one was in the least bit interested. In a contemporary climate of hanging out all of the dirty laundry and blaming all of one’s problems and foibles on our parents and society, I was cursed with a loving, supportive functional family. Preternaturally proper and parentally adored by my affectionate father, I was always encouraged and supported. It never occurred to me that I might not succeed at anything that I attempted and I had no doubt that I could be assured of living happily ever after.

I had nothing to contribute to the victimized account of a ruined life, not even the I rose above it popular version. It’s not my fault that I was blessed with parents who were young, demonstrative, and enjoyed sharing time, love and energy raising a healthy, happy child. I was unknowingly home schooled in self-confidence and I’m none the worse for it.

Like all my friends, I was given simple chores designed to instill homemaking skills, and I took it all in stride. I seemed to have been born without the standard issue cooking gene but I loved the mundane duty of sous chef chopping and cleaning-up. My mother had an interesting way of creating character-building chores. When I became obsessed with clothes, she suggested that I learn to iron cottons and linens and hand wash cashmere sweaters and be personally responsible for my own wardrobe. That oddly made sense to me and I actually enjoyed it. When I wanted to make the second floor sunroom my bedroom, I learned to wash and shine three walls of floor to ceiling windows and make them sparkle.

I was not above a little resourcefulness when necessary. My Saturday outside chore was to mow the lawn in the summer and to rake the leaves in the fall. Our house sat in the middle of a half-acre of tall, thick Kentucky blue grass and maple trees. I coaxed my boy friends into helping by feigning that I wouldn’t be able to join them for the pep rally, tennis match or whatever else was on our social schedule, because I had too much work to do. They volunteered to help and invited their buddies to speed up the process, and where there are teenage boys, the girls will follow. I sweetened the pot with a reward of warm, fresh-out-of-the-oven chewy chocolate brownies and walnut laced oatmeal raisin cookies. That was the beginning of my love for baking.

I spent my formative years outside on skates, bicycles and horses, and inside happily in school, the dance studio and church. I had everything I ever wanted. No one in my small hometown was super rich so having no comparison; I found no need to wish for more. My father called me Princess and since I fervently believed everything my Daddy said, I was more than satisfied with my lot in life.

Older sedentary parents guided Catharine’s primitive years and my active parents were barely out of their teens. For seven years, I was the only child of the closely-knit group of three couples and was included and treated much like an equal … we were all kids. The lifelong social circle consisted solely of the three men who had grown up together, their wives, children and extended family as we grew. They good-naturedly competed and teased and were as close as brothers. Maybe closer, since they choose to be friends, and were not required to by the nature of semen selection. As couples they played bridge, bowled, vacationed and took turns cooking. Alone, the men hunted, fished and golfed. The women waited well.

Our typical two story, three bedroom, middle-class home with an attic, basement and a big yard, was quietly and happily inhabited with mother, father and child, soft voices and contagious laughter set to a background of continual melodies of danceable music. My little corner bedroom had pale yellow walls with windows overlooking the garden, and it was my private place, my sanctuary for dreaming and dancing in front of the mirror.

After school, I played outside with the neighborhood kids until dark. I was the only girl in the neighborhood so the boys, seriously short of players, accepted and included me in all the team sports. Being an athletic tomboy, I grew up comfortable and unaware of any implied inequality with males. During the summer, I lived on roller skates. They took me anywhere I wanted to go–speeding, spinning-to the rhythm of the music in my head.

My mother, Margaret, was a beautiful woman. Because she was perceived to be prettier than most of the neighborhood mothers, with porcelain skin, blue eyes, curly blond hair and a mile-wide smile, the neighborhood kids addressed my mother reverently as Miss Movie Star and she accepted it graciously and good-naturedly. I was proud of my mother and loved to watch her get dressed-up. She had a limited budget and few places to go, but with an eye for style, the few choices in her closet were picture perfect. With a practiced talent for sewing, she could copy and redesign any current McCall’s pattern, and make it one of a kind. When she had made her magic, it was not an everyday keep-warm winter coat but a sophisticate sleek calf-length black cashmere fitted coat with welt seams, wide notched collar and turned-back sleeves. Not a simple suit but a steel-grey wool tweed jacket with short peplum, stand-up collar and gored skirt. She looked glamorous when she added the silver fox skins, given to her by her mother-in-law, around her shoulders. My favorite was an ivory-on-ivory floral print satin gown, cut on the bias with long pointed sleeves and a short train. She only wore it on one occasion but it hung majestically in her closet as a memory, with the matching satin shoes, wrapped in protective tissue, nestled vigilantly on the shelf above.

My relationship with my mother involved quiet times of reading, singing, drawing and playing word games. Looking back as an adult, I’ve often felt that my love for my mother was enriched because my father loved her so. My parents danced, hugged and were sweetly affectionate. If there was any existing discord, it was exercised behind closed doors and out of earshot. I have read that our "love map" is developed by age six. I grew up believing that homes are happy, mothers and fathers love each other forever and expected no less.

I met and fell in love with Dewitt Brighton, who was from New York, while I was a student at Northwestern University. He played trumpet in a swing band and was a Garrett Theological Seminary student. To me that was sophistication. In my naiveté I believed that you couldn’t have sex unless you were married. So I got married. Unfortunately he was more interested in his studies than in sex, so the premise of my getting married to have sex, didn’t work out well. We were more like good friends and compatible roommates than husband and wife.

Viva La Difference

Catharine and I were slated to be best friends, although as different as night and day. We were ying and yang, complimentary opposites within a greater whole.

Through the years, friends have commented on how unalike we were and yet are such good friends and good company. My answer was, Why not. Our differences complement each other and we never compete. Actually we are both independent thinkers—both leaders, not followers. We just take turns leading.

The only physiology that we share in common is that we are both five feet nine inches tall. Catharine is a curvy brunette endowed with cleavage that provides an extraordinary nesting/resting place for her stunning jewelry collection. I have been paid well for being as described by my modeling agent as a "buffed pencil thin, pale blond with and long legs that begin at her chin and stretch into infinity." Of course it has also been said that if it wasn’t for my smile, when I walked through the door, you couldn’t tell if I was coming or going. Catharine is comfortable admitting her age and with a teenage son, anyone can add. If I were to tell the truth, I am a bit older than she is. But of course I won’t have to because I choose to be the younger and I lie about my age.

In the real world, jealousy and envy involving the male persuasion and affairs of the heart, have been known to threaten or even sever the relationship of the best of girlfriends but not once have Catharine and I ever been attracted to the same type of man, much less the same man. Catharine prefers dark, age appropriate or a bit younger, with height, appearance, profession and geographical location relatively unimportant. I prefer not to need to support them. She is approachable, emotionally available, adventurous and willing to take emotional risks.

I am admittedly self-limiting with specific criteria. My men need to be seriously tall, handsome, blondish with light eyes and skin, athletic, high profile, intelligent, professional, and able and anxious to adore and support me in style. Of course, the blondish translated into silvery as time passed which was about the same time that I also learned to appreciate the attributes and advantages of older men. "Why be a young man’s slave when you can be an old man’s darling?"

Unlike curious and courageous Catharine, who willingly welcomes possibilities, I would never-ever even have a drink with a man that hasn’t been vetted and introduced to me by a friend. I prefer to know pedigree, performance and portfolio. My life is good but a wealthy, powerful, athletic, healthy, loving husband could make it better.

Although we share sensibilities, neither of us is above lowering our standards under interesting circumstances, but neither would ever just settle. We both had a talent for keeping a former paramour as a friend, and a friendship can sometime develop into a romance. Catharine explained her theory in terms that I understood, A woman needs to keep her stalls full but one empty, just in case.

We also practiced the fine art of passing a man on. If the discontinued man was a good guy and agreeable, we delighted in introducing him to an appropriate girlfriend, with both parties aware and generally enjoying the exchange. Individually and collectively we also had a gaggle of glorious gay men in our repertoire, who were good company, appropriate, willing and often even anxious, to be walkers for a lavish sit-down or just a fun girl’s night out.

Our co-existence required negotiations and tolerance guided by finesse. Catharine preferred to bloom in the heat and preferred the room and car temperature at a cozy and comfortable seventy-eight degrees, while I thrived in the crisp coolness of a sixty-eight degree atmosphere anywhere at all times.

I am a veracious reader and follower of all current events. I peruse a vast variety of newspapers daily, from the Wall Street Journal to the local Hollywood LA Weekly throwaway. My sympathetic friends abet my reading addiction and recycle their periodical subscriptions for my treadmill fodder. Very few magazines escape my interest and run the gamut including Time, Vanity Fair, the Economist, Woman’s Health and Sports Illustration. Catharine preferred a variety of books to magazine, except for the fashion must-reads, and always had one nearby.

Guilty of being a self-proclaimed political junky, I thoroughly enjoyed the banter between politicians and the media, televised or in print, with decided personal preferences but chose to temper discussions with friends to avoid confrontation over parties and personalities. My goal is conversation, not conversion because seldom if never do the well intended facts as-I-see them lead to change. Catharine on the other hand, had little interest in recreational television or newspapers. She found the news in general depressing and seldom listened to television except for Bloomberg Reports and a daily read of the Wall Street Journal for financial news.

With a sophisticated sense of clarity she understood international political affairs and the complicated cause and effect of the world’s money market. Anything that touched the oil industry, she found interesting. Catharine was proactive, a doer. If something peaked her interest, she got in the middle of it.

She was a Board Member of the family oil business in which all the family members were involved and in touch. If oil prices fluctuated above or below a reasonable number, the phones would ring.

Coffee By Phone

Elizzabeth, it’s Catharine. I have to cancel lunch tomorrow. I need to go to Huston in the morning for a called Board meeting but I’ll call you on Saturday morning and we can have coffee by phone.

This initiated our coffee by phone ritual which continues to be a lifelong ritual and in rhythm with our friendship. We needed to keep in touch. Without fail, each and every Saturday morning Catharine and I had our coffee by phone. We were a habit. We check-in and catch-up, from around the corner or around the world and stay in contact verbally. We engage in active-listening, with the freedom to actively interrupt … often. It may be a short chat with newsy headlines, a SOS signaling the immediate need of an emotional bandage, an open-ended opportunity to vent with or without resolution, or maybe just a marathon meandering cozy conversation.

With erratic hours, wandering time zones, and personal agendas, absolutely anything goes from anywhere. Calls may come from cell phones between flights, while driving, continue intermittently when running mundane errands or erratic tag calls to and from and in the middle of something and everything. We were both adept at multitasking, so we could dye our eyebrows, apply our make-up, flip an omelet and walk a dog without missing a beat in our phone conversation. Catherine, with her earlier time zones and extensive travel agendas, initiates the phone ritual on her cell with unlimited calling and the dialogue begins with her politely inquiring,

Do you need a few minutes

This customary prep time may be spent pouring a cup of coffee, setting up a compatible activity like doing my nails, to be coordinated with the conversation, or just getting cozy and comfortable. Then she calls again and the marathon commences. From ground phones when one or both are anchored, polite phone protocol is disregarded, and any and all activities are permissible and encouraged … bathing, tinkling, cooking, eating, call-waiting, make-up, time-outs for the hair dryer, dressing, and even an abrupt and frantic sign-off of Oops! I’m late, I’ve got to go, followed by an immediate Bye, without a beat. No prolonged wrap-up words. There’s always next Saturday.

The only strict stipulation is that we be alone, because we are intimate confidantes and no other person is deemed worthy to be privy to our personal and private conversations. If we unexpectedly get caught in the company of others when the call comes in, we confess and clear the deck or reluctantly reschedule.

Chapter Three

The More the Merrier

My family had lived modestly so Catharine’s vast devoted Texas household staff, some of who came to the Beverly Hills home, was a fascinating phenomenon to me. They were an interesting mix of those who had been with her family as she was growing-up, others were second generation in continued service. Bo was the major-domo overseeing the daily division of duties but the housekeeper, cook, and maid each took individual directions from Mrs. Sumner, and took pride in their personal position. Their loyalty was appreciated and amply compensated. When advanced age or poor health dictated retirement, each staff member received a lifetime pension. There were also the expected personal secretaries and assistants, who came and went, but of particular interest from my vantage point were Bo and Mickey.

Vigilance

Bo’s mother Lilly, a local southern bred African American, had helped raise Catharine from infancy, loved her and enjoyed her lofty position as the longest in service. Bo, now in his forties, began helping out as a child and after high school joined the household fulltime with a lifetime of on-the-job training to his credit. He was a man for all reasons. He could do a little of everything if asked, but was willing to do nothing if the opportunity presented itself. He was slow to move, and slower to think but honest, trustworthy and loyal. He was at everyone’s beck and call. He drove the family, took care of the cars, tended the house when the family was away, did the grocery shopping, ran the errands, painted, cleaned, watched over the gardeners and repairmen, assisted in the kitchen, cooked when recruited, acted as butler when required, and for formal sit-down dinners, served beautifully. Bo never took the initiative, seldom spoke unless spoken to, and rarely took liberties.

I had an experience involving Bo that made a lasting impression and taught me a lesson worth learning. Both Bo and Lilly had come to Beverly Hills with Catharine when she leased a home there. She filled out the local staff with Madge, a personal maid, originally from Argentina who turned out to be a jewel. The house ran smoothly. I was in and out of the house daily and felt very much at home and welcome.

One day around mid afternoon, when I was chatting with Catharine in the living room, our tête-à-tête was interrupted by an urgent and complicated conference call from her attorney in Houston. Catharine went into her office and the conversation continued. To allow Catharine privacy and to amuse myself, I slipped into the empty kitchen, opened the refrigerator and chose a large Fuji apple and some cheddar cheese. I poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy. I knew that Catharine would not be interested in my snack and would let me know when she had finished the phone call. I enjoyed the nibble, and as I was putting the plate, cup, saucer and paring knife in the dishwasher, Bo appeared and announced, Mrs. Brighton, Mrs. Houston is looking for you. I thanked him and went to the open door of Catharine’s office. Catharine motioned to come in and close the door.

Bo’s feelings are hurt.

Why are his feelings hurt?

Because you made your own snack.

Completely baffled, I asked, Why would that hurt his feelings? I just wanted a little bite of something and didn’t want to bother him.

I know. You were being thoughtful but Bo feels that it is his job to make snacks and serve them. He takes pride in that duty and if you make your own snack, he worries that he isn’t needed and that his job isn’t secure.

I’m really sorry. How do I make it up to him?

You must ask him to make you something else to eat.

Now? But I’m not hungry.

Yes, you are. Bo!!

Catharine yelled so boisterously loud and shrill that the recessed Texas accent got loose and bounced off the walls. It startled me so that I came up off the cushion in the chairs, but as soon as my ears quit ringing, I laughed. It reminded me of the movie The Sinking of the Mollie Brown. It surprised Catharine too. Never again did I hear even a tinge of a Texas accent even when she let her hair down or was lubricated with Dom Perignon.

Bo appeared. Yes, Mrs. Houston.

Bo, Mrs. Brighton would like a small salad. Would you please make one for her and bring us both coffee. Thank you.

We continued to chat about this and that but I was distracted and kept my eye on the door. After what seemed like an eternity, a gentle knock sounded and Bo entered. He cleared a side table, laid the table with silver and napkins and drew