A couple of years into Rose's tenure as director, New York magazine asked to do an interview with her. She was torn, because it felt dangerously close to an ego trip. On the other hand, she knew publicity translated into bucks, and the level of publicity she'd get from New York magazine would be big. She put on her simplest blouse-and-skirt outfit, brought the reporter to her humble little home on the wrong side of town, fed him a salad she'd bought from the local deli, established that his name was Al and hers was Rose because she hated formality, and then, with her daughter, Carrie, sitting at her side, she told the man, who was by now thoroughly entranced, that he could ask her anything he liked.

He kicked off with the question she had been expecting because even though Bobby had been dead for two years, there was still a certain segment of New York that would always think of her as his widow. “Mrs. Manning,” he said, “your late husband was one of the great men of Broadway, and your mother was a big star, yet you have chosen to walk away from all of that. I think most people would wonder why.”

Rose had her answer ready. “Al, I want to show you something,” she said, and she brought him into her little kitchen and stood in front of her refrigerator. The door was covered with children's artwork, all done in crayon. Some were brightly colored freehand pictures, while some had been ripped from coloring books and had been painstakingly filled in with pale pastels. “These are pictures the kids at the shelter have made for me,” Rose said. “They give them to me to put on my refrigerator because none of them has one. I've promised them that their pictures will stay right here until each of them has a kitchen of their own. It's my mission, and the kids and I call it Project Fridge. Now, I want you to tell me what Broadway opening night, what designer dress or big party could possibly be as important as the hope of these children for homes and a decent life? And I am privileged to share in their hope. What more could I ask for?”

Al the reporter couldn't write it all down fast enough, but Carrie could have given the man a slightly different perspective on Project Fridge if he had asked her.

PROJECT FRIDGE HAD evolved like so many things in Rose's life, by accident—or perhaps serendipity might be a better word. It had happened when Carrie was six. In addition to her duties as director of the shelter and unofficial spokesperson for the archdiocese charities, Rose still insisted on spending several hours a day with the homeless kids. “I need to remember why I'm doing this,” she told Connie.