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she seems much younger than she is. It’s like when you keep a banana out of the sun—it doesn’t ripen. Capri is a forty-year-old green banana.
    Capri has a heart-shaped face and a short neck (an unfortunate combination—it’s like an egg cradled in a spoon). On the plus side, she has long sensuous fingers and a plush caboose. She’s so nearsighted that she is legally blind without her glasses. Even though she wears fashionable frames (in our youth Capri wore cat-eye glasses with real diamond chips on the wings), there’s only so much a doctor can do with lenses as thick as ashtrays. Poor Capri always looks as though she is peering through the wall of an aquarium. She tried contact lenses, but she has recessive tear ducts (a painful condition, her mother is always quick to remind me), so she can’t wear them. I am one of the rare people who has seen Capri without her eyeglasses, and while she is no Claudia Cardinale, it’s an improvement. I kiss her on the cheek.
    “Mom made shepherd’s pie,” Capri says by way of greeting.
    “Great. I need some nutritional gravitas.”
    “Well, as casseroles go, it has it.” Capri takes my jacket and hangs it in the hall closet, whose door has an artful trompe l’oeil column painted on it.
    I started coming to dinner at the Mandelbaums’ once a week after Capri’s father died, and like all small-town habits, this one stuck, and now it’s a standing engagement. I never call ahead of time; if it’s Monday, I’m at the Mandelbaums’ for supper.
    No matter how many times I stand in this foyer, with its winding staircase covered in beige Berber carpeting, hemmed by the banister lacquered to a shiny black, lit by the Baccarat crystal chandelier, and with a round needlepoint area rug in pale peach and soft gray silk and wool, I always see something new. The lighting is soft and golden; all the chandeliers have dimmer switches and bulbs that twinkle like actual candlelight. A chandelier is to a room what diamond-drop earrings are to a beautiful woman—the perfect accessory.
    “If I had to choose one thing that makes or breaks a room, it’s the chandelier. It’s the crowning glory of good design.” I catch myself pontificating. “I’m sorry. I sound like a windbag, but if you had seen some of the crap I saw today—”
    “I don’t mind.” Capri threads her arm through mine as we walk to the back of the house.
    Capri’s father, the late Sy Mandelbaum, was like a second father to me. Following my graduation from Parsons School of Design, he hired me to do the window treatments and carpets in all his banks (by that time he had several). He not only trusted me with his commercial properties, he hired me to do his home. When the Mandelbaums entertained, Sy would brag about my work. Suddenly, I had more jobs than I could handle with clients who could afford the very best. This house became my own Kips Bay Bazaar. Luckily, Aurelia loves change, so I’ve never really stopped decorating this house. I’m still futzing with it; I’m about to redecorate the solarium, which overlooks the pool out back.
    Castle Mandelbaum, as I call it, was built in 1960 in the French Norman style. It sits atop a hill on five acres of manicured lawn. The imposing limestone tower and cupola can be seen from several miles away. I encouraged Sy to put in a gate and a circular drive to conjure the carriage stop of the past, thus adding to the house’s old world charm. I found an ironworker from Germany who made an imposing gate using the letter
M
as a motif. Sy watched the installation in awe. “I love an expert,” he used to say. We even had the contractor install heated pipes under the concrete in the driveway, which was treated to look like brick. No nasty falls when you come to visit
this
house in the winter. The driveway is always clear of ice and snow.
    Inside, the rooms are well proportioned, with tall, wide windows and vaulted ceilings, creating a feeling of openness. This is the perfect