“Of course I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t be in the hospital,” he snapped at her. “Would you like me to undress so that you can examine me?” Abraham began unbuttoning his pajamas.

“No, I know you’re fine. Would you like some water?”

“Yes, water would be nice.” Frankie held a glass of water up to Abraham’s lips while he drank it.

“You’re a very nice nurse. I wish you would come more often. Listen, would you mind turning the television back on? Because if we’re going to war, I need to know. They told me, after the last war, that I wouldn’t be drafted again. But you can’t trust these sons of bitches.”

Frankie kissed her father on the cheek. “You never know.”

Abraham and Frankie sat in silence as the president concluded his speech from the Oval Office. By the time the documentary ended, Abraham had dropped his head forward and fallen asleep. As he continued to snore, Frankie turned off the television and began to sneak out of the room.

Frankie pulled out her cell phone when she left her father’s apartment. “Jil, it’s Frankie. I wondered if you’d like to meet me for a drink.”

Whenever Frankie called Jil for a spur-of-the-moment movie or drink, he was never available. She assumed he was with clients or his daughter or had other social obligations. But tonight Frankie couldn’t bear the thought of just going home.

“Can I get you a cab?” Abraham’s doorman asked her.

“Yes, that sounds great.”

The doorman hailed a cab and turned to Frankie. “Where to? Home?”

“The Carlyle Hotel,” she answered quickly.

After Frankie and Jack had split up, she made a rule for herself never to drink alone at home. It wasn’t that Frankie was particularly concerned about her alcohol intake, but the alone-at-home part of the equation felt like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

A hotel, however, had entirely different connotations. A drink at the Carlyle was like going to London and popping in for a glass of wine before the theater. And most important, according to Frankie, the Carlyle had the best oily and salty potato chips in town.

Bemelmans Bar was dark and half empty. In the corner table, a blonde English girl of around twenty-five was seriously necking with a sixty-year-old man Frankie recognized as a business partner of Paul Rodman’s. At the center table were three women with thick Texas accents wearing what Helen would describe as skating-rink-sized diamonds. They were holding up shopping bags from Bergdorf, Valentino, and Barneys, like hunters displaying the day’s game.