Judy’s personal assistant, Eileen, made most of her appointments and social calls unless they were a top priority.

“Anyone call?” Judy stuck her head into Eileen’s office after her Pilates teacher left.

“Everything’s under control.” Eileen smiled from her swivel chair in the former nursery. Of all the personal assistants she’d had over the years, Judy preferred Eileen. She was married to a painter and had two teenage sons and needed the weekly paycheck. Every year, Eileen signed a confidentiality agreement, and every year, when she threatened to quit for one reason or another, Albert gave her an attractive bonus.

“Mrs. Tremont, do you want me to send out the invitations for the February dinner today?”

“Wait till tomorrow. I need to make a few calls first.” Judy hunched over Eileen’s desk. “I see you have Charlotte signed up for tap dancing there. I thought I told you to cancel tap dancing. Charlotte wants to play tennis instead. Also, Adrienne Strong-Rodman says there’s this fabulous woman who will come to the house to teach the kids piano in Italian. But tell whoever it is I do not allow pizza or pasta in the house and I don’t want them babbling about them either.”

“Yes, Mrs. Tremont. Of course, Mrs. Tremont.” Eileen nodded. Although she was the same age as Judy and a Smith College graduate, Eileen never addressed her by her first name. Eileen had read far more Edith Wharton than her employer, but she had the professional discretion never to mention it.

Judy left the room with a sense of determination. She had painstakingly waited two weeks after she left Palm Beach to call Samantha for dinner. She applied the same abstemious discipline she’d mastered in dieting in order not to place the call. Calling too soon would make her seem pushy or worse, a real climber. But today she gave herself permission to go for it.

“Hello, Samantha.” Judy was almost shocked when Samantha and not her version of Eileen answered the phone.

“Yes?” Samantha did not remember her voice.

“This is Judy Tremont. How are you?” Judy had taken up emphasizing the “are’s” so the question had more poignance than just a social pleasantry.

“I’m just fine,” Samantha answered.

“My God, you actually answer your own phone!” Judy relayed her astonishment.

“My assistant is a grad student at NYU. She’s at a seminar today.”

“Oh, I love grad students.” Judy couldn’t believe her phone karma had worked out on the first try. “But they are completely unreliable. I mean, in the long run, I don’t need someone who knows when The Last Supper was painted. I want someone who’s happy to change my appointment at Frédéric Fekkai.”

Samantha giggled.

“I am having a little dinner party on February 15th to get rid of the winter blahs. And I’ve invited Clarice and Barry Santorini and I was hoping you could come. They are so fun!”

“I don’t know him very well, but she seems lovely.” Samantha felt uncharacteristically anxious.