521he’d redecorated the family home, where
fowers were also a presence. “My dad was
an amazing fower gardener,” he says. “He
had a tulip garden, and people would crawl
over the fence to have a look. So fowers
have always been a part of my world.”
Dallas was the closest big city, so after
two years at the University of Oklahoma,
he headed there and got a job at the Versace
boutique. He eventually moved to the shop
in Beverly Hills, where he helped Gianni
and Donatella dress celebrities, and ulti-
mately to London, where he worked his
way up to heading the company’s U.K.
operations. “I adored living in London,”
Buterbaugh says. “I love how they dress,
how they make conversation, how they
entertain. They make an efort, and fowers
are important to English people.” (Paltrow
admits that she often quizzes him on the
Brits: “He knows a lot about the royal fam-
ily, so I’m always grilling him.”)
It was while he was in Europe that Buter-
baugh began to recognize the power of
fragrances and how they could be synony-
mous with a certain lifestyle—a thought
he returned to in developing Eric Buter-
baugh Florals. In addition to the line, he is
opening a shop in West Hollywood later
this year, which will include a small per-
fumery and an adjoining gallery and garden
space for entertaining. “It will be a little
oasis for the fragrances,” he says. “I’d treat
it like the Chateau [Marmont]—I would
be very selective of who’s in. Also, in the
gallery we’ll do shows. Naughty fower
photography if they want it. The hook is
the fowers—everything will be inspired
by fowers. I wonder if I can fnd someone
who does erotic foral photography?”
However, Buterbaugh’s clients need not
fret: His new enterprise won’t distract him
from his day job. “When I started [doing
fowers], no one had seen what I was doing,”
he says. “My friends will still be able to walk
into a party and know that I’ve done it.”
At the end of the Bazaar photo session,
Richie was lamenting the way she’d replied
to a text Buterbaugh had sent her that morn-
ing. “He wrote me to thank me for doing
the shoot, and I responded, ‘You can thank
me with some peonies for my entryway,’ ”
she says. “But then I regretted it because
Eric could come up with something so
much better than just some peonies.” n
continued from page 518ONCE UPON
A TIME
I ended up taking an overdose of Sheena’s
Valium. I didn’t want to die; I just wanted
my father to open his eyes to these awful
people. I now understand they were using
me as a receptacle for their sorrow, an
easy punching bag for their fury and fear.
Those two girls had recently lost their
father and didn’t want another one, and
they were more grief-stricken by their
new situation than Sheena perhaps cared
to admit. Hindsight is a wonderful thing,
but it does not negate the fact that Del
and Mel made my life a daily hell.
Instead of my usual despair, I woke the
next morning in the hospital to a feeling of
pure anger. A doctor named Arthur Prince
was in charge of my case. Arthur looked
rich, and he was not funny. In my dazed
state, I asked him how old he was. I’ll always
remember his words: “Old enough to know
better.” Arthur is spoiled, entitled, and golden,
but I am more clever than he is. Really,
I was the one who should have known better.
Melody fell for Arthur Prince. As if fear-
ing he would slip through her hands, she
asked him out on a date—there, next to
her stepsister’s hospital bed, me, sprawled
between them like a sacrifce. He said yes,
and Melody bought new shoes for the
occasion, shimmering leather with a killer
heel. She spent days parading back and
forth in them in my old bedroom.
On the evening of the date, Delilah was
sick with a cold, and grumpy that she had
nothing to do. Melody was fushed, excited.
“Cindy, come and do me up,” she called,
the shining light of hope in her eyes mak-
ing her seem softer.
I zipped up her lovely dress, and she put
on one of her shoes. “Now, where’s the
other one?” she asked. It was nowhere to
be seen. She even got Delilah out of bed
to look for it. Melody started to become
hysterical. “You’ve stolen it!” she screamed
at her twin, clomping up and down like
Long John Silver in her one high heel.
“Why don’t you just wear another pair
of shoes?” I asked, having lived long enough
with Melody to know what her answer
would be.Melody pulled at her painstaking French
pleat in frustration, the perfect edifce of
her evening collapsing before it had even
begun. “This isn’t supposed to happen!”
she wailed, unraveling before my eyes. The
doorbell rang. I thought of the other shoe,
how its expensive leather had felt beneath
my fngers before I snapped of its heel
and dumped it in the trash.
“I’ll go,” I said. “That’ll be him.”
Melody let out a sob. “He can’t see me
like this!”
Descending the staircase, I saw Arthur
Prince’s outline, distorted by the glass. And
it is true that my husband has always failed
to make a frm impression.
In their panic and illness, Melody and
Delilah did not see the beautiful dress I was
wearing, the shoes that matched, the serene
gaze that spoke nothing of my intention to
leave this house and never return. Though
this was 14 years ago now, I can recall in
great detail how Arthur, waiting on the door-
step, noticed only the contours of my body.
Under such scrutiny, I felt an inward col-
lapse that things had come to this barter, but
then I thought of my cold bedroom upstairs;
the rumors I couldn’t brush of; my father
and Sheena wrapped up in each other, hair
spray and soft mints. My stepsisters, telling
me I was worthless. I had to get out.I
explained how Melody had
caught Delilah’s cold. “Where
were you planning on taking
her?” I asked. “To Pumpkin,” he
said. Pumpkin was an exclusive
restaurant in the city, and it was
almost impossible to get a table.
“My dad’s friend owns it.” He hesitated.
I was only 16 and just discharged. “You
well enough to come out?” he asked.
“I’m fne,” I said, smiling. “Come on.
I will take that as an invitation.”
Arthur Prince grinned, believing he
had found a fellow reckless spirit.
I walked away from that house and never
went back. I can still see them in my mind’s
eye, Melody and Delilah at my old bed-
room window, mouths ajar in shock. And
deep in the house, Melody’s missing shoe,
shattered in the trash. nJessie Burton is the best-selling author of
The Miniaturist