John Sahag was persuaded to squeeze Nola into Goldie Hawn’s canceled hair appointment. After Nola's hair was woven with locks grown elsewhere and treated to seven shades of highlights, she was a beauty her mother wouldn’t have recognized.

Saturday, following her double morning jazz class, Nola took the train to Smithtown, using the two-hour ride to catch up on her sleep. No matter what happened with her life, Jenna, troubled and difficult, unloving and unlovable by anyone else, was still a part of her, never to be excised like the cartilage from the tip of her nose.

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 24

Nola followed Ming-Ji into a building with buckled walls and crumbling yellow plaster. Daniel brought up the rear as they clambered up three flights of steps and entered a tiny apartment with furniture that seemed to have endured more than the Cultural Revolution. But the walls of the small living room had been recently whitewashed, and new bamboo blinds gave the modest space a clean, albeit unlived in, feeling. A paper scroll with red Chinese calligraphy hung on one wall.

“Here we meet sometimes,” Ming-Ji said.

Nola guessed that the “we” referred to whoever worked with them on their human-rights issues, and that they couldn’t risk gathering in someone’s apartment.

Lulu was quiet and content in a sleepy way. Nola eased her onto the low couch. Daniel stood watching the baby for a moment, his gaze tender.

“She needs a bath,” Nola said.

“Water good to stimulate her,” Ming-Ji said. “There aluminum tub in kitchen.” She turned to leave.

“Let me.” Nola rushed after her. “You’ve had a full day of work.”

Ming-Ji replied with a dismissive wave of her small hand.

“I’ll get you something to eat.” Daniel stepped to the front door. “Any requests?”

She glowered at him.

He walked back. “Are you cross with me?”

“Does it show?” She let out a chortle. “That Washington Post op-ed piece of yours. I had thought you were a friend until I realized that all along you objected to my coming here.”

He stood still. The comment snaked on the floor between them, writhing and curling around their feet. From the kitchen came the sound of an aluminum pail scraping a surface. In the street below, a merchant chanted an announcement of his wares.

The seconds stretched and Nola’s brain registered that she had never seen Daniel touch his head, scratch his chin, or fidget.

“My objection is to the U.S. strategy of appeasement toward China. That doesn’t preclude the fact that meeting you has been a pleasure,” he finally said.

She let out a wry laugh. “A serendipitous one, no doubt.”

“My writing reflects my political views.” His voice was soft. “You, the icon—not the person—are part of a political strategy.”

“There’s only one Nola Sands,” she said, knowing that he was right, and the only Nola that counted to anyone was the icon Nola.