He recalled the festive vigor of those winter months, the brisk caress of Nordic winds, the clamor of revelers, inebriated with holiday cheer, and a towering ceremonial spruce, bedazzled in light, standing majestic amidst Rockefeller Center.
His driver would taxi the obsidian Maybach curbside at 20 Rockefeller Plaza, where Maxwell would exit into the sea of crimson and evergreen hues of the season. As the tips of his sable leather, cap-toed Berluti shoes met the pavement, he would be similarly encountered by a dashing representative of Christie’s, eager to escort the visionary architect into the storied salesrooms of the revered auction house.
It would be some while before he would emerge with La Pie, by Claude Monet. It was a surprise gift for his wife to celebrate the season. The impressionist work of effet de neige is now exhibited within their sitting room, at their country cottage, in the somnolent village of Beddgelert, Wales.
Now, as the Maybach idled curbside at 718 Fifth Avenue, its courtly chauffeur standing in wait for the accoutrement artisan to emerge, there was no occasion in particular to spur the acquisition of the platinum and diamond necklace, adorned with 25 carats of oval and pear-shaped mandarin garnets, all for the wonder that is Claire Mulberry.
Today, he did it just because.
Implode. Part LXIV - DK
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