![]() ![]() “Do you realize what this might do to our friendship? Okay, love you and can’t wait to see you.” She hung up and the phone rang again. “How are you and why didn’t you come to Paris for my fiftieth-birthday party?” Becca demanded. “Actually, it would be no problem at all,” he said. “Would it be too difficult for you to run over to the convenience store in the next building and get a package for me?” she asked. She looks at least a decade younger than her fifty years, and she can easily outflirt women half her age. Then, after the waiter recited a litany of pricey specials, she told him that she wanted a hamburger and Fritos.īecca raised her eyebrows and gave him a coquettish glance with her navy blue eyes. They had been to a dinner the night before, and as she walked into the hotel’s restaurant, wearing a black Helmut Lang T-shirt, a light blue Chloe jacket designed by Stella McCartney, a black leather Gianfranco Ferré skirt, and Sergio Rossi sandals, she announced, “My God, I drank so much wine last night I feel like I’ve just come out of anesthesia.” She threw back her head and roared with laughter. We were at the Crescent Court Hotel, in Dallas, where she and her husband were staying. To give you an idea of just how different she is, let me tell you about the lunch I had with her in April, shortly before her party. She is, in other words, not your average wealthy American socialite. She feels no need to emulate, say, Brooke Astor, speaking in refined tones about her love of philanthropy and fine china. She is, in fact, a native of the humble border city of Harlingen, where her father, Slim Jim Cason, worked as a sportscaster for a television station-hardly blue-blood credentials. How, I wanted to know, had this happened? Becca was not born or raised in Houston. Indeed, when Becca and a planeload of her Texas friends headed to Paris in March to celebrate her fiftieth birthday, a weekend that culminated in a candlelit dinner at the historic Chteau de Chantilly, outside the city, W magazine devoted two pages to her, pondering the burning question: Is Becca Cason Thrash on her way to becoming “the next social superstar”? And this summer even the august New York Times, in a Sunday-magazine story on Texas society, pronounced Becca the next Lynn Wyatt. It occurred to me that no Texas socialite had attracted this kind of attention since the seventies, when Houston department-store heiress Lynn Wyatt became the toast of society columnists everywhere for the parties she threw in Europe for the jet set. I read about her wildly avant-garde, 20,000-square-foot mansion-a house originally designed by Preston Bolton that her husband, John Thrash, the chief executive of the Houston energy company eCorp, had remodeled, tripling its size. I read stories that called her “the high priestess of posh.” I read that Houstonians had nicknamed her TriBecca because she changed her outfit three times at every party she threw. I read about her extravagant parties in Women’s Wear Daily, Town and Country, Talk magazine, and Liz Smith’s gossip column. Four-poster or bunk e.g.For five years I had been seeing the name Becca Cason Thrash in boldface almost every time I glanced at the society columns in the Houston Chronicle.Letters that mean Mayday! crossword clue._ Mellark (Hunger Games character) crossword clue. ![]()
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