A month after that vacation her father was shot during a Modesto fast-food robbery. He was discharged from the force with honor and spent the rest of his life racing model cars in the basement and drinking Smirnoff every night. He died ten years later.
Judy was not so much embarrassed by her parents as flabbergasted that they never figured out that life could be controlled if you only had the right resources. Ever since that childhood holiday, Judy firmly believed that with the right amount of cash no one could afford to get to Mickey Mouse before you did. Even better, Mickey’d be all spiffed up and waiting for you.
When Judy walked into the treatment waiting room she was stunned to see Samantha Acton, unplugged, reclining in just a towel. Obviously, 9/11 had changed more than just Judy’s travel plans. Studiously, Judy turned her eyes on Samantha’s body. As Pippa Rose would say, “She was just scrummy!” Not an ounce of anything unnecessary, and what was there was tight.
“Hello!” Judy walked directly in front of her. Samantha had plainly no recollection of who the stranger before her was.
“We met through Dr. Frankie.”
For a moment Samantha didn’t know who that was either.
“We met at the Nutcracker benefit. Francesca Weissman is my daughter’s doctor and she’s a very good friend of mine, too.”
Samantha sat up slightly. She had just had an hour and a half of reflexology and was looking forward to not moving at all before another hour was over.
“Oh, Francesca Weissman. We went to school together,” she said softly.
“That’s right.” Judy’s dad had taught her that in any investigation the crucial thing is to get your fish to first bite. “Frankie is also good friends with my decorator, Pippa Rose.”
“Uh-huh.” Samantha was hoping the chattering would stop now that she had been pleasant enough.
“You were at Clarice Santorini’s table. I adore her, and her husband, Barry. I went to a screening of Tristram Shandy that he just produced. Oh my God! I think it was the best thing I’ve ever seen!”
“Oh.” Samantha felt the benefits of her reflexology going straight to hell.
“My husband, Albert, and I would love to get together for drinks with you and Charlie tonight. I think you and Albert would have a lot in common. He’s from an old New York family and likes snowball sundaes, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Samantha considered swatting her.
“Great! So we’ll meet you tonight in the lounge at six.”
Samantha tried to muster the energy to say that she was busy, but she decided it was easier to put a “Do Not Disturb” on her phone and simply be unreachable.
“You know I didn’t think I wanted to come to this hotel but there’s something about the grand Floridian style that really is so fun! See you later! Just relax. Don’t get up.” Judy practically skipped out of the room.
More than anything at that moment Samantha wished she wasn’t staying at that goddamned hotel, but on the other hand she couldn’t bear to stay at her mother’s house either. She associated Palm Beach with her mother’s deadly fund-raisers—women in pink and green Lilly Pulitzer dresses with clunky white alligator Lana Marks bags. Samantha’s mother, Dorothy, known to the world as Doddie, was an avid social do-gooder ever since her graduation from Mount Holyoke. In fact, Samantha’s mother’s roommate from college became a Christian missionary, and if Dorothy hadn’t fallen in love with Clifford Bagley at a Williams College mixer, Samantha thought her mother could have been a missionary, too. But Dorothy remained true to her lineage. She had inherited a fortune second only to the Rockefellers’, and both her husband and family would never let her drift away to volunteerism in China. Samantha’s mother became a pillar of Palm Beach society and her father a stalwart of the Republican Party.