VIEWPOINT: Remembering A Special Friend And Neighbor, Connie Clarke

Eric and I had just closed on the house on Jefferson Street in Sag Harbor when we stopped by one evening to ruminate on what we might do once we took possession.

As we were leaning over the fence, we heard a woman’s voice say, “Oh, sorry, that house just sold!”

We turned around to see a petite, raven-haired woman in a pearl necklace, matching earrings and bright red lipstick standing by her gate across the street.

“I know,” I said. “We just bought it.”

And, just like that, a friendship was ignited.

Eric and I had lived in Sag Harbor for 10 years prior to purchasing 20 Jefferson Street, and even though we loved spending time here, it never quite felt like home.

Meeting Connie Clarke changed all that. Not only did she provide us with a local mother figure, and thus a feeling of family, she also provided a living link to Sag Harbor’s past.

Connie was part of the ex-pat population of Time-Life employees and other literati who “discovered” Sag Harbor in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Charmed by the little fisherman cottages in need of repair, and motivated by the low prices, this group of authors, editors and artists brought a uniquely urbane sensibility to an otherwise sleepy village.

How many times did we sit around the fireplace in Connie’s parlor room browsing The New York Times or The Sag Harbor Express, and looking through books inscribed by friends and authors such as Peter Matthiessen and Peter Jennings? Little tidbits would drop about time spent with “Bill” Holden at the Stork Club, or life with her late husband in the United Kingdom and San Francisco.

And what about those photos of Gina Lollobrigida in St. Mark’s Square in Venice? Wait — that beauty was actually Connie.

Where Connie and I really bonded was in her ability to boost my confidence at a time when I had serious concerns about the restoration we had undertaken on Jefferson Street. Connie, with her innate optimism and understanding of Sag Harbor, gave me the gentle push to keep moving forward on this daunting project. I even had her call my mom to assure her we had made a smart move in purchasing and renovating the house.

In fact, my favorite memory about the early years of our friendship was captured in a story about the house that ran in The New York Times, fittingly titled “Restoring an Old House and Putting Down Deeper Roots”:

“On a recent walk down Main Street, the couple ran into the contractor who did their floors, and … in a particularly Hamptons moment … the journalist Carl Bernstein, who soon ambled over for a tour.

“That night, Mr. Weinstein and Mr. Hensley were due across Suffolk Street for chicken pot pie and ice cream with their neighbor Connie Clarke, a former Life magazine staff member who bought her house with her late husband in 1961.

“Workers were busy in the couple’s yard, laying down a bluestone walk in preparation for Mr. Hensley’s birthday party the next weekend. All of the furniture and fixtures were in place, though, at long last.

“‘They have been working very hard,’ Ms. Clarke said. ‘They’re very tired. That’s why I’m feeding them.’”

This started a multi-year tradition of home-cooked meals every Friday night at Connie’s, or, sometimes, a calzone and a plate of spaghetti at Conca D’Oro.

And while there’s nothing like a home-cooked meal, an outing in public was its own special treat, as everyone knew Connie, and any walk through town would inevitably include interruptions by friends wanting to chat.

Connie explained that this was due to her time spent as director of the Hampton Library, where she ran their popular “Fridays at Five” program, featuring author readings. And Connie wasn’t adverse to flaunting her popularity. With her left arm linked through mine and her right arm through Eric’s, Connie took delight when one of her contemporaries stopped us on our promenade and exclaimed, “One young man isn’t enough? You need two?”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the walks and meals became less frequent, consisting of shared Thanksgivings and birthdays, eventually stopping all together. We still had our visits, of course, and Connie never lost her interest in what was going on in the world and in our lives.

And she never lost her sense of who she was. Even at the end, she would always prepare for our visits with a dab of lipstick and a spritz of YSL Rive Gauche that Eric had brought for her from Paris.

Last year, I painted a portrait of Connie that I hoped would capture her warmth and ongoing curiosity in the world. I remember presenting it to her: She seemed delighted that I had chosen her as a subject, but upon further reflection, she asked me if it had been necessary to include so many wrinkles.

I felt it had been, as each wrinkle made up the map of her life — every smile or frown, every happiness or unspoken sadness revealed itself on her face.

I came to realize that despite her age, Connie still thought of herself as that girl dancing with Bill Holden at the Stork Club.

I believe it was those memories that fueled her enthusiasm every time we’d visit. Even at 98, Connie had not grown old. She always greeted us with a loud and enthusiastic “Bob!” and “Eric!” and a shake of her fists in the air. When leaving, she would tell us she loved us, to which we’d reply, “Love you more.”

And with that twinkle in her eye and her big smile, she’d respond by saying, “Love you most!”

Bob Weinstein and Eric Hensley are residents of Sag Harbor; their neighbor and friend, Connie Clarke, died on May 28, just two weeks before her 98th birthday. Her obituary appears in this week’s edition.