F E AT U R E
ROSEMARIE ARNOLD FROM WASHINGTON HEIGHTS TO WAINSCOTT By Virginia White Photography By Gregory Partanio
I arrived a half hour early at the summer home of Rosemarie Arnold in Wainscott for my interview with a woman whom I’m told is “the best attorney in New York and has agreed to be on our cover.” I was greeted in the white gravel driveway by Robert Arnold, a welcoming, jolly, and straightforward middle-aged man in an Under Armour bathing suit, who had been lying on a lounge chair by the pool with his wife, Jackie, on the most picturesque lot I ever could have imagined. “My sister is not here,” he said matter-of-factly as he walked toward me on the white marble tile that adorns the pool. “You’re early,” he said, seriously. As I begin to apologize, explaining that I miraculously didn’t hit any traffic, he stops me midsentence and says, “I’m just kidding. It’s no problem; she’ll be back soon. I was going upstairs to get a slice of pizza. Would you like one?” “No thank you,” I replied (since it’s 10:30 in the morning), but I would love a bathroom. “We don’t have one,” he says. I was new to my job, but I would soon learn that the whole Arnold family has this same warped sense of humor. He laughs at his own joke. “Follow me,” he says and leads me to the inside of the house. “I’m Robert, Rosemarie’s favorite sibling,” he says as we walk up the steps to the second story of the restored barn. I’m delighted at what I see. The house is adorned with different sized signs “mostly from Sag Harbor,” which demonstrate my subject’s sense of humor and appreciation for life and love for the beach. “Bed and breakfast you make both” reads a beige and aqua sign
hanging from the door as you walk in. “If you are lucky enough to live by the beach, you are lucky enough” says another in matching colors and font. And my favorite, “Please excuse the mess, the children are making memories.” Mess? There is none. The house is immaculate, white couch and all. It smells sweet and summery — fresh flowers from the farm are abundant. The living room window looks out over that colorful fresh fruit and flower farm, then behind it the ocean. Wow. I had done research on my subject but, still, I was taken aback when she arrived at the house, back from her walk to the beach. Wearing a pair of torn blue-jean shorts and a Cornell tank top, this 55-year-old, highpowered, “top 1% of trial lawyers in America” was a ringer for a college student, toned and tanned, unassuming and even less intimidating. She wheeled Iris, her 83-year-old mother (whom I recognized from her TV commercial) in a Burberry wheelchair with Joy, her mother’s white miniature poodle, seated on her lap. “You must be Virginia,” her mother exclaimed as Rosemarie picked up Joy (who weighs less than three pounds) to help her mother out of the wheelchair. Immediately, Joy wags her tail and starts licking Rosemarie’s face. “The dog loves her,” says her mom. She goes crazy every time she’s around. I think it’s because Rosemarie feeds her.” “I do not,” quips the tri-state area’s number one victims’ advocate, as if she were a 10-year-old girl arguing with her mother. She kisses Joy on the head and snuggles her face into Joy’s body. “Rosemarie is a wonderful daughter,” her mother volunteers as Rosemarie enjoys the dog. “I absolutely love her. She’s every mother’s dream. I have six children and 14 grandchildren,” her mother brags. And they are all successful. Iris was to be my best source of information; she tells it like it is and loves to boast. I would come to learn that she has a right to be proud. Iris Toback, who presently lives with her identical twin sister, Fran (the two wear matching Burberry outfits daily), married an obstetrician-gynecologist, Murray Arnold, in 1960. “He delivered all of my children,” she informs me proudly. “Then he dropped dead and left me with six kids. Four of them were in diapers.” I’m not exaggerating, she actually said “dropped dead.” “Rosemarie is my oldest daughter. And the rest of my girls are lucky she was.” Iris explains how “when Rosemarie was five years old, she would climb into her 18-month-old sister Nancy’s crib to give her a bottle while I slept. I would wake up and there would be milk all over the place. But Nancy was happy and fat, so I knew she was getting fed.” Iris explains how Rosemarie was born to be a lawyer. “When they were little I used to tell my kids to go to bed. Rosemarie would argue that there are six of them and only one of me, and they all voted that they could stay up late. I told her this was not a democracy.’ ” Iris, who worked as a New York City public school teacher after Murray died, raised six children in a two-bedroom tenement with one bathroom, in Washington Heights. Social Life