“That would be perfect, Katherine. And cancel my Pilates, please, because I forgot there’s a birthday party after ballet.”

“Yes, Mrs. Santorini.” Katherine took notes.

“Mother”—her daughter slumped back on her couch—“when you were younger and you worked, did you make your own appointments?”

“Of course I did.”

“So why don’t you make them now?” she asked.

“Because I have two children, a husband, and four homes to run now and I couldn’t get any of it done without Katherine here. Your father has a fit if his favorite orange juice isn’t immediately available in all of his homes. Why are you asking me this?”

“We took a vote in our women’s studies class. Half the class said they would prefer to stop working when they had their children. But they all said that raising a family in New York was impossible without wads of money, a nanny, a housekeeper, a cook, and a personal assistant.” Venice leaned in toward her mother. “Mom, do you think that’s true?”

Clarice wasn’t sure how to answer. She hoped that her daughters would find work that would obsess them like their father’s work obsessed him. Clarice loved her life but she knew ultimately that her real job was to make Barry’s life work for him. If Barry called on the spur of the moment to say they were all going to Europe that night, Clarice would get the children organized and make it happen. And if Barry called the day of a long-planned vacation to cancel, Clarice called the staff back and dinner was on the table. It was difficult anticipating the moods and whims of someone as volatile as Barry. But after fifteen years of marriage, Clarice believed she had it down to a science. Clarice knew she wasn’t a genius, but she knew Barry better than anyone else in the world. For Clarice, the fact that she was Mrs. Santorini wasn’t just about love or money or even family obligation. It was her entire existence.

The First Annual Indie Film Benefit was held in May at an abandoned church on Jefferson Avenue in Bedford-Stuyvesant. The building had been partially burned down during a 1964 summer riot and never fully restored. Samantha had found the site while she was scouting the area with Barry’s current favorite production designer. She chose not to hide the church’s decay, but to light its Victorian details and wooden altar with blue and lavender Christmas lights. The lights were like tiny blue dots creating an air of mystery and sensual decay. The pews in the sanctuary were replaced with blue velvet leopard love seats and massive throw pillows. And for flowers, Samantha triumphed with the unheard of: she had stalks of red gladiolas at every table, the kind sold by the dozen for $6.99 at a Korean market. It was a style coup.