“No, Austria. He came here at age twelve and landed on Ellis Island. He lived with his aunt on the Lower East Side. My father won a scholarship to Georgia Tech as an engineer. He was the only Jewish boy in his class. He began working in a textile mill in Alabama and invented a machine for manufacturing panty hose. But he came back to New York because he thought the segregation laws in the South were unconscionable. He opened a factory in Paterson, New Jersey, with a black foreman who had been a segregated factory worker in Georgia. My father thought this was a great country as long as the opportunities open to him were available to everyone. He was diagnosed with Pick’s disease five months ago. When I saw my father tonight, he thought I was his nurse.”

“In some ways”—Charlie looked directly at her—“maybe it’s best that both our fathers don’t know about this country right now. Maybe we can both take solace in that.”

At that moment, Frankie felt closer to Charlie than she had to anyone since her relationship with Jack ended. She thought what it would be like to spend the night with his arm around her, listening to the Beatles, talking about their childhoods, as if they were still nineteen.

“Check, please.” Charlie called for the waiter. “Monsieur, l’addition, s’il vous plaît.”

As Charlie rattled off his French, Frankie felt the world of Pippa Rose and first-tier schools, Judy Tremont shrieking in her office, and the Fashionable Samantha Acton all fall back into focus.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

·CHAPTER EIGHTEEN·

Clarice

Clarice asked both her thirteen-year-old daughter Venice and her personal assistant how she should dress for the indie film benefit in Bedford-Stuyvesant.

“Mom, you just can’t go there in some preppie Ralph Lauren dress and pearls,” her daughter told her. “You need a little bling.”

“What?” Clarice asked.

“A little bling. You can’t be so boring in Brooklyn.”

“What does that mean?” Clarice sat down beside her daughter in the family room.

“I just mean they’ll be really cool people there.” Venice had exhibited a collection of her photography when she was twelve. It was about a day in the life of a cashier in one of her grandfather’s supermarkets.

“Fine. I won’t be boring. So what should I wear? Katherine, do you have any ideas?” She asked her assistant, a thirty-year-old former Mark Morris dancer. “You’re cool.”

“I’d try something ghetto fabulous. Like Lil’ Kim,” she answered.

“Who’s Little Kim?” Clarice asked.

“Mother, you are so pathetic. I’m amazed Daddy stays married to you.”

“I guess he just loves me.” Clarice stood up. “I have to pick Brooke up from school. She has ballet today.”

“Mrs. Santorini, would you like me to make a few calls and find something appropriate for you?” the assistant asked.