Amid magnificent flower arrangements sent by radio and TV stations, concert halls and record-store chains, her staff of a hundred and fifty was supplemented by friends from the entertainment world. Nola scanned the faces of producers, directors, TV and radio hosts, songwriters, actors and singers and former executives of Phonomania Records. “It looks like a ‘This Is Your Life’ broadcast,” she said as she walked among the people who filled her many rooms and the pool area, then poured out onto the huge wraparound terrace, except that there was no one from the first sixteen years of her life. Beverly was dead.

Roberta was there, big-mouthed and big-hipped and big-presenced, who sucked all the air out of the room as she directed cameramen and inner-circle journalists. She also was the vice-queen of the party, bowing to a standing ovation for her role in obtaining political-asylum status for Lulu. Nola made no mention of the fact that, just last week, she had detested the woman who now rode high on the wave of being her closest buddy.

Then came the phone call from Air Force One, and President Corwith asked Nola about her health and that of the baby, congratulated her on behalf of himself and Mrs. C., and told her they’d talk when she came to D.C. about doing some human-rights work. Daniel should have been there to hear this new twist. Or Mauriello, for that matter.

Gabby called, too, blabbering with excitement, crying. She would have flown to New York, but with all those babies and two mares about to give birth…. Nola promised to come out West as soon as her schedule would allow.

As the party flowed, uniformed waiters passed around drinks and finger food while the band and Nola's backup singers performed a medley of songs. Small groups bumped and grinded in a spontaneous dance. Nola wished they would all just leave. She longed for her forced vacation on the lawn at the Manila embassy, when it was only she and Lulu imitating the birds and playing. When Wade was far away.

“I hope you got a bunch of new songs from your adventure,” Jean-Claude told her. “My wonderful Ginger Goddess. I was afraid you’d miss the Grammy.”

She winced at his self-centeredness, but then again, he had no more followed his inner music than she had hers. Why carry a grudge over his reluctance to support her cause? Jean-Claude’s lunacy—or the pretense of it—served him well. After all, he had managed to get away from the Chinese wrath over her insubordination.