Mimi was one of Sondheim's original "Ladies Who Lunch," a Manhattan Upper East Sider who shopped for a living in tony Madison and Fifth Avenue boutiques. With her fun-loving personality and contagious laugh, she easily crossed that line from my customer to my friend. My partner, Jack, and I spent many weekends at her nine-bedroom home in East Hampton that summer, where, to her delight, Jack took over kitchen duties and showcased his culinary skills.
To show our appreciation for her continuous Hamptons generosity, we invited her to dinner at the trendy new restaurant Les Halles and asked her to meet us on Park Avenue South near 28th Street. She was somewhat bewildered and apprehensively responded, "Oh my, I've never been below 50th Street!"
One week before Christmas, Mimi suggested the three of us meet for a holiday drink. The day of our scheduled rendezvous, she stopped in my store. The staff and I were slammed with holiday shoppers. As I was already with a customer, I invited Mimi to browse while I finished my transaction. Through her many previous visits, she had become one of our very best clients.
A customer approached me, asking if I was the manager and saying she needed to speak with me immediately. I turned to tell Mimi I would be right with her, but she was already at the front door and said she would return later when we weren't so busy.
I then turned back to the customer, who explained in a hushed voice that she had just witnessed a theft in the store. She said the lady who had just left had taken a pearl necklace from the display and put it in her purse.
I couldn't speak. I just stared at her as if she had just said something in a foreign language. I finally whispered, "Are you sure?"
She nodded emphatically and pointed to the empty tray on the jewelry counter.
I went into my office in a stunned daze and called Jack for advice. He was as incredulous as I was. This couldn't be true. This was a trusted friend who had just been accused of committing grand larceny! I took it very personally. It hurt.
Then Jack said, "I have an idea. Call her and cancel this evening. Tell her a theft has just occurred in the store and that one of the customers who had witnessed it is a private investigator and wants to meet with you after the store has closed." Jack's understanding of human psychology bordered on brilliant.
I called Mimi and relayed my story. She was shocked and asked if anyone could make a positive ID. I told her I could not discuss the details with her and hung up.
Within the hour, Mimi burst back into the store. She started to ask me questions with machine-gun rapidity: "Do you have any idea who could do such a thing? What exactly was taken? What time did you say this happened?"
She then dropped to the sofa while still exclaiming her disbelief. As she continued her intense interrogation, she let out a loud gasp and said, "Oh my God! Look what I found stuffed behind the sofa cushions!"
And there it was, the pearl necklace, dangling from her fingertips. I looked at her as if I were watching a very bad audition from a very bad actor. She then said I could now cancel my meeting with the detective.
I told her this would not be possible, that I still needed to meet with him so he could identify the perpetrator. Mimi left nervously, asking me to keep her posted.
An hour passed and she called the store for an update. I decided I could no longer keep up this charade and quietly said, "I know it was you."
At that moment, our relationship was irretrievably broken. How could I allow someone to damage my career under the guise of friendship? She was no longer a customer. She was now a thief. We stopped speaking.
A few months passed before Mimi extended the proverbial olive branch and invited Jack and me to meet her at her duplex apartment on the Upper East Side. She showed us a bedroom filled with the inventory of her crimes. I recognized many items from my store and realized this thievery was not performed by a novice. I told her she needed therapy. Then we left.
Life continued but our relationship did not. One loses touch when silence is enforced. A few years later, I read in a Christmas card from her mother that Mimi had died from a brain tumor.
Now, I choose to remember our good times, our shared meals, our laughter, and my friend who once lived on Lily Pond Lane in East Hampton.
Randall Hemming lives in East Hampton.