Paris actually wanted to buy some flowers for the house, but it was the three arrangements in the window that had drawn her in. “I've never seen such lovely flowers,” she said, staring at them again.
“Thank you.” The woman at the desk smiled at her. “They're for a party we're doing this afternoon. The pots belong to the client. We can do flowers in your own bowls, if you like, if you want to bring one in.”
“That would be wonderful,” Paris said pensively. She had an antique silver samovar that was actually very similar to the one in the middle. She and Peter had bought it at an antique show in England. “I'm not going to have anything for a while, or a few weeks anyway. I just moved out from the East.”
“Well, just bring them in any time. And if you're doing a dinner party, we'll be happy to set you up with caterers too.” It was a very unusual florist indeed, or maybe the woman was just being helpful. Paris wasn't sure. “Actually”—she smiled again—“that's my end of things. I run a catering service, and I do a lot of work for the owner of the shop. I'm just baby-sitting for them today. The girl who usually works here is out sick. And Bixby's assistant is at a baby shower, she's having a baby next week.” The shop was called Bixby Mason.
“Is this actually a florist shop?” Paris asked, looking confused. As she glanced around, she could see that the decor was very high end, and there was a narrow marble staircase to the upper floors at the back of the room.
“It started out as one. But it's actually a lot more now. The man who owns it is an artist and a genius. He does all the best parties in town, from soup to nuts. He provides the music, caterers, decides on the theme, or works with his clients to create the atmosphere they want, from small dinner parties to weddings for eight hundred. He's pretty much cornered the market on entertaining in San Francisco. The flowers are just the tip of the iceberg now, so to speak. He does parties all over the state, and around the country sometimes.”
“Very impressive,” Paris said quietly, as the woman reached into a bookcase behind her and pulled out three huge leather-bound albums. There were at least two dozen more on the shelves.
“Want to take a look? These are just a few of the parties he did last year. They're pretty fabulous.” If the flowers in the window were any indication of his work, Paris was sure they were. And as she sat down to thumb through the books out of curiosity, she was enormously impressed. The homes he worked in were spectacular, the settings more elegant than any she'd ever seen. Mansions, gardens, beautifully manicured grounds on large estates with tents specially designed to accommodate the guests in fabrics she would never have thought of using. The weddings she saw in the book were exquisite. And there were a handful of small dinner parties he had photographed that were any hostess's dream. There were hand-painted gourds on the table in one for a Halloween party, a profusion of brown orchids in another, with tiny Chinese vases holding little sprigs of herbs, and a fifties party with so many funny decorations on the table that she smiled as she turned to the last page, and finally handed the books back, with a look of awe.
“Very, very impressive.” And she meant it. She wished she had had the imagination to do something like that in Greenwich. She had done some lovely dinner parties, but nothing in these leagues. Whoever the owner was, he really was a creative genius. “Who is he?”
“His name is Bixby Mason. He's actually an artist, well, a painter and a sculptor. And he has a degree in architecture, but I don't think he's ever used it. He's just a very, very creative man, with incredible imagination and vision, and a nice person. Everyone he works with loves him.” Paris also realized, from what she'd seen, that he probably charged a fortune. But he ought to. What he created for his clients was obviously unique in all aspects. “Somebody called him a wedding planner once, and he almost killed them. He's a lot more than that. But he does a lot of weddings. I cater a lot of them, and I love working with him. Everything goes off like clockwork. He's a master control freak. But he has to be. That's why people come back to him, because everything he touches is perfect. And all the hosts have to do is enjoy the party.” He was worth his weight in gold to the people he worked for.
“And sign a hefty check afterward, I'll bet,” Paris added. It was easy to see that the events he coordinated for them had cost a fortune.
“He's worth it,” the woman who was baby-sitting the shop said without apology. “He makes their events unforgettable. Sadly, he even does funerals. And they're beautiful and tasteful. He never skimps on flowers, food, or music for parties. He flies in bands from everywhere, even Europe if he has to.”
