She was a beauty, classic-style; had a young marriage to a handsome young man named Pierre Crosby. They were photographed with their images in all the magazines. The marriage eventually ended and Mallory moved to the fast lane of hip living here, abroad, in L.A. She was a very friendly girl, smart and quick witted, full of conversation at all times; a woman of style with all sorts of creative talents. And she was nice.
When I first met her in the early 1990s she was living full time in Southampton and writing for Hamptons Magazine which was then owned by its founder and her boyfriend Randy Schindler. She was going through one of those transitions we often experience in life, having come to the end of one road and tentatively looking about for that new pathway. Her father had passed away (she was an only child) and her mother was in bad health, so she finally decided to move back near home in New Jersey.
It was there that she met, or became re-acquainted with a man named Roy Kean (pronounced Kane), a member of an old and prominent New Jersey family. Roy was also a divorce (with grown children) and a contemporary. Together they re-entered the social scene of today’s New York.
She had a ferocious charm, a whirlwind of energetic personality. The fast times of the 70s and 80s scooped her up and drew her in. Those were wild and woolly times – Studio 54 days morphing into international jetsetting. By the 90s Mallory was looking passionately to recover, and, like a lot of us, was struggling to put herself back on track again. With Roy, who was a buddy and a pal (“the other side of the same coin,” was how he described their relationship to a friend), she had an ally and a real life partner. With Roy, she succeeded in making a lovely new life for herself and for him. They shared many things and many emotions. He was her rock although no doubt, she was his skipper; they were a great team.
Lately, having made her fond farewells to the flaming youth that was once hers, she’d been thinking seriously of using her multitude of talent and energy to write a first hand account of those glory days when candles burned at both ends. That’s a rigorous objective to get off the ground; there was a lot of territory to cover, but she was working on it.
Last Thursday night/in the wee hours of Friday morning, Mallory was driving back from Manhattan where she’d been to a party for her stepson, to their house in Bernardsville, (Roy had stayed in town for a business meeting the next morning) when her car was rear-ended by another car on Route 78. The collision was immediately followed by an oncoming tractor-trailer, barreling down the highway and plowing into both cars. And we lost Mallory forever.