Barry’s house in Aspen was stocked with exactly the same food that Samantha remembered in Nantucket. For Samantha’s taste, the house was a little too aggressively western. There were a few too many quilts, moose heads, wood-beamed ceilings, and Native American rugs.

“It’s a lovely house.” She smiled when she walked into the living room. “So cozy.”

“Clarice did it,” he answered. “You gotta hand it to her. She does have terrific taste.”

As soon as Samantha heard it was Clarice’s taste she dismissed the entire décor as suburban ski resort from the Ralph Lauren western home collection.

“How is Clarice?” she asked.

“Who the fuck knows,” he blurted. “She wants to open a shop in Palm Beach. All these fuckin’ rich women now want to pretend they’ve got something to do. They should all go collect tolls on the George Washington Bridge for a day. Then they would shut up about work giving meaning to their lives.”

Samantha was sorry she had brought up Clarice at all. “How are your daughters?”

“Clarice tells them lies about me. And Venice’s friend had her foot blown off the other night.”

“What?” Samantha sat down.

“You know, that woman decorator who had a daughter who was a promising dancer.”

“Pippa Rose?”

“Yes. That’s her. The daughter was at Starbucks.”

“That’s so awful!” Samantha hadn’t heard this before. “Barry, why has the world become so terrible?”

“You were just protected, baby. The world has always been terrible,” he said, reaching for a bagel.

“Not like this. Not Pippa Rose’s beautiful daughter at the Starbucks near Lincoln Center.”

“What. You think the crazies care if Pippa Rose’s daughter did pirouettes or went to Spence? Don’t be such a fuckin’ elitist.”

Samantha poured herself a vodka. “I’m not an elitist.”

“C’mon. You can’t say you haven’t had an easy life. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, men dig you, and your parents had a shitload of money. What the hell else did you want?”

Samantha thought perhaps Barry’s anger management was wearing off. “I wanted to be happy.”

“Only rich girls can afford to want to be happy. Most of us think we’ll be happy once we make enough money.”

“And are you?” she asked. By now the two vodkas on the plane plus this new one were sinking in.

“I know most men don’t have what I’ve got,” he replied.

“You didn’t answer me.” Samantha put her hand on his thigh.

“Fuck you.” He tickled her and playfully pushed her against the wall. Then suddenly he stopped. “Let’s go to bed.”

“What’s the matter, Barry?” She ran her fingers through his hair while he winced as if he was in pain.

“I’m tired, I’m going to bed.” He began slowly walking up the steps that looked like log-cabin Tinkertoys.

“Are you okay, babe?” she asked, following him.