She'd think about leaving him, but what would she have without him? Who would she be? Lu's world was still Rose's world. In their world, Bobby was fast becoming a god—and incidentally, Lu might be a star, but a god trumped a star. Rose couldn't walk away from all of that. Besides, she still loved Bobby. And she still believed that someday he'd realize that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He'd dump the Girls and he'd be hers. And she'd win for real. So she kept on smiling and pretending.

The thing about smiling and pretending—and tongue biting—year after year is that eventually it takes its toll. So Rose shouldn't have been surprised when she found, as she and Bobby were approaching their sixth wedding anniversary, that she was having trouble sleeping. One night, as she was roaming around the apartment, she found herself standing in the middle of her closet—the space was actually a separate bedroom that had been converted to accommodate her wardrobe. She looked at the floor-to-ceiling clothes racks jammed with evening gowns, hostess gowns, cocktail gowns, day dresses, afternoon dresses, pantsuits, leisure suits, slacks, skirts, sweaters, and tops. There was a wall of shelves on which her shoes and boots—did she really have four hundred and seventeen pairs, as the maid claimed?—were stored. There was another wall for her furs; the calf-length sable vest that had been such a hit when she'd worn it to the opening of Bobby's third show, the floor-length marabou cape that had made all the fashion pages when she'd worn it on closing night. And in the corner was the safe in which all her jewelry was locked away, all those glittering tributes to his own success that Bobby had given her. It was all there—the sum total of what she had achieved in her life.

As Rose stood there, trying not to weep, she remembered St. Mary's and the rummage sale. And she remembered Sister Phil saying that there were times when you couldn't think about yourself because you wouldn't be able to bear your life.