“I’m afraid our time is over.” The therapist stood up and Samantha began pulling her cashmere poncho over her head.

Samantha managed to keep herself from calling Barry for almost six months. She never mentioned to Adrienne or even her therapist that she checked her messages four times a day to see if he had called and half expected a Bulgari bracelet waiting for her when she came home.

Most of that summer and fall Samantha stayed in Adrienne’s house in Bridgehampton. She had very little interest in going to the city for her board meetings or attending any benefits. She walked on the beach every day, taped her show once a week, and read all the books she had postponed in order to go out to dinner parties: Trollope, Dickens, Tolstoy. At night, Adrienne’s housekeeper would prepare a small salad with grilled fish, or Samantha would send her home and make herself a peanut butter and bacon sandwich.

By October, the lead-up to Paul Rodman’s trial became so overwhelming that Adrienne would more often than not phone Samantha on the morning of a taping and say, “I can’t make it. You do it.”

It wasn’t that Samantha couldn’t do the show alone, but she missed Adrienne’s crass yet energetic spirit. Adrienne knew exactly who all their guests had slept with and how much was in their bank accounts. When Samantha’s mind drifted to what her therapist called “beating herself up,” Adrienne would move right on to whose husband had done worse things than Paul and never been caught. She was happy to name names of every embezzler or crook with a Gulfstream jet.

Bridgehampton is relatively quiet in the late autumn. The damp ocean winds and falling leaves create a golden blanket on the well-trimmed lawns. Samantha wore sweatpants and a V-neck cashmere sweater every day. When she got to the small television studio she’d let them put on makeup and fashions from the chic shops in Southampton. But as soon as she left she decided she couldn’t care less. In her mind she was taking a sabbatical from her life until things were resolved with Barry.

Adrienne called her on a bright December morning. “You have to come into the city and see me. You can’t sit out there like a nun.”

“I like being a nun.” Samantha laughed. “Every morning I take a walk on the beach and sing the score of The Sound of Music. I’m particularly good at ‘Maria’s not an asset to the abbey.’”

“I’m going to shut my house down if you don’t come in. I swear I am calling Con Edison,” Adrienne jokingly threatened.