my agent says. He’s brought two of Vendome’s most expensive gift baskets, each overflowing with sweetmeats, cheeses, and a jeroboam of champagne. One basket gaily wrapped in red cellophane with flowing ribbons. The other somberly encased in black cellophane, the sort of thing you bring to a wake. “We didn’t know if you were celebrating or mourning. So we covered both bases.” “I’m not sure either,” I tell him. “You know what they say. Into each life a little rain must fall. Well, Addie, let’s face it, she was a deluge.” He never liked Addie. Can you tell? As he leans over and sets the brimming baskets on the coffee table, I get a whiff of him. My agent smells good. He really does. It’s not perfume or toilet water, whatever that is. He says it’s cologne. Don’t get him started, though, because he can do a half hour on the subject. He gave me a huge bottle of the stuff for Christmas, but I still haven’t worked up the nerve to use it yet.
