When Nola wouldn’t budge, Wade enlisted Beverly, who took the train in to meet them. Beverly had attended all of Nola's record launch parties and supervised Nola's foundation work for children’s services, but now she looked thin and ashen, and her hair had grayed. Menopause, she told Nola, and she was working with an Indian homeopath on regaining her hormonal balance.

“You’re swimming in a sea of denial,” Beverly said to Nola. “You love Jenna, but the only method proven effective with drug addicts is tough love.”

“She’s had all ‘tough’ and no love. I promised her a home. It’s been nine years—instead of the two I vowed when I signed up with Wade.”

“You’re twisting things to suit your guilt,” Beverly said. “You did try

for custody. You spent all your free time visiting her. You did everything to find her when she ran away—”

“If I desert her again, she will never trust me again. I can’t—I won’t—do that.”

She gave Eddie back his ring and let Leslie pack her things.

Leaving Eddie—her hope, his promise, their dreams—brought to the surface the old crushing sense of loss. The loneliness was so all-consuming, the bass strings growling so loud in Nola's head, that her vocal cords hardened.

“I’ve set up an appointment with a psychotherapist,” Wade told her.

“I have that psychiatric nurse for Jenna. I don’t need a shrink.”

“Your heart—and your body—are crying for one. You might as well listen.”

Within a week, Nola bought a ten-room apartment in a building with a health club and a swimming pool, and assigned Jenna the task of working with a decorator to make it a home. Under the decorator’s guidance, Jenna played with textures and colors. Her room was filled with decorating magazines and fabric swatches. Her vocabulary became one of jewel-colored silks, flowered chintz and damask tassels. She spoke of rugs: Killim, Bukhara and Berber.

At a lunch at Lutéce, Wade said, “Judging by the decorator’s bills pouring in, you guys are in full swing.”

Nola smiled. “Jenna must have inherited her artistic talent from our mother. She’s loving every moment of it. She also writes a lot.”

“I still want her out of your hair. We have work to do.” He pulled out of his briefcase a list and placed it in front of Nola. “What do you think?”

She stared at a list of names of young male celebrities. For publicity purposes, before Eddie, Wade had arranged the occasional date for Nola through agents of baseball players and heartthrobs. The dates provided mutually beneficial photographs and mentions in gossip columns. Nola had smiled, chatted, posed for the cameras, and even accepted romantic dinners at chic spots, compliments of restaurateurs seeking the attention.

She pushed the list away. “Thanks, but no.”