“That was an unbelievable party.” Barry began to massage her feet. “You raised two-point-five altogether for those filmmakers. Jesus fuckin’ Christ. No one’s ever done something like that for them before.”

“They should make it an annual event.” Samantha took a puff.

“No, you make it an annual event.” He kissed her fingers.

“Barry, I’m sorry about—”

“You’re sorry about what?”

“Well, what happened.”

“Fuckin’ door didn’t lock. It’s like an obvious movie with a basic plot point. I’d fire a writer who came up with shit like that.”

“Maybe you should call her?” Samantha didn’t know why she said that. She didn’t particularly want Barry to call Clarice.

“Maybe you should call what’s-his-name.” Barry dropped her foot.

“Charlie.”

“Fine, Charlie.” Barry passed her his cell phone. “Call him. Tell him I called my pilot and we’re flying to my house in Nantucket because I can’t let you go.”

“I don’t want to call Charlie. He’s probably asleep. He gets up early in the morning.”

“So does Clarice. She takes Pilates.”

“They all take Pilates!” Samantha puffed on her cigarette.

“Listen, there’s no reason for me to call Clarice. What matters is my children and I will deal with that.”

Barry had, early in his marriage, told his lawyers that if he ever got divorced, he would sue for the children to live with him. Clarice was, in Barry’s opinion, too high-strung to be a single parent and much too polite. He didn’t want his children growing up to be doormats.

When the driver pulled into the Signature Flight Support terminal, Barry looked up into the rearview mirror.

“Julian, I’ll be back at around ten a.m.” Barry instinctively knew that Julian had taken Clarice home and come immediately back to Brooklyn for him. “We’re just going up to Nantucket for a little breakfast.”

“Very good, Mr. Santorini.” Julian opened the door for Samantha and Barry and the Teterboro security guard swung open the gate to the runway.

“Hello, Mr. Santorini. Great to see you.” The pilot approached them. “Wonderful morning for a flight.”

The fact that the pilot did not ask who is this woman, why did you wake me up to say you were flying to Nantucket at four-thirty in the morning, and where is your wife, gave Samantha a rush of well-being. It further confirmed her suspicion that true power and money insulated you from any logical reality. Climbing up the steps to Barry’s Gulfstream jet, Samantha believed, given the precariousness of life, that Barry and men like him had devised the most bearable way to live.

“Didn’t this house once belong to the Mellon family?” Samantha asked as they drove along a winding road to a classic shingle “cottage” perched on acres overlooking the ocean.

“How did you know that?” Barry asked.

“I used to come here with my mother when I was a kid.”