Anyway, her tender heart was staggered when Daddy killed himself. Mother had discovered the body first thing in the morning, so there was a terrifying fuss of screaming and telephones and ambulance men. Harry was off prepping at Hotchkiss by then, so it was just the two of us kids, Iris and me. She started having these strange shivering fits, so I took her into our room and crawled into bed with her to keep her warm. In those days nobody told you what to do with news like that—grief like that. Maybe a doctor would give you a sleeping pill or something, but otherwise you were just supposed to swallow it whole and not bother anybody else with the awkwardness of your sorrow. Fine for somebody like me, but for Iris? So I just held her and stroked her hair—didn’t say a thing. In the morning she came to and drank a little milk that I fetched for her, and a week later she marched bravely into St. James Episcopal Church on Madison Avenue for the funeral, holding my hand. She wore the navy blue dress and coat I picked out for her at Bergdorf’s. I was so proud of her. On our backs, I felt the prurient gazes of all the assembled so-called mourners, and I just thought to myself, You will never understand what a wreck she was, only a week ago.

You know, I met a shrink at a party once who said I had a God complex, whatever that meant, and for a long time afterward our entire conversation made me indignant, whenever I thought about it. For the record, I don’t think I’m God, or even one of His archangels. Just a mortal woman doing her best with what’s entrusted to her care.

But I do understand the frustration God feels when He shows us the right way forward, time and again, and what do we poor mortals do? We go the opposite direction, almost to spite Him, and sure enough we come to grief.

ANYWAY, YOU CAN’T SAY Barbara Kingsley doesn’t follow my instructions to the letter. When the taxi screeches to a halt outside the Palmetto at eight thirty-two, out pops the most ravishing woman you’ve ever seen in your life, wearing a coat of white fox and a sequined dress that could bring sight to a blind man. I step forward and pay the driver myself, and he scoots right off. I turn back to gather my bevy of sirens and there stands Barbara, hands on hips, laughing her head off.

“All right, boss lady,” she says. “I think I see your plan. Where do I fit in?”

“Right at the front, Miss Kingsley.”