The familiar tap-tapping of her mother’s footsteps drew her back to the huge, beautiful living room, which had been designed by Mongiardino. But the room itself faded to obscurity when Elaine’s mother walked in.

The press had always been especially kind to Freddie St. James, and for good reason. She had married Banner St. James, whose roots and wealth were sunk deep into the mythos of the city, and she was everything the media wanted from a woman like her: graceful, educated and generous. She was admired by everyone from her bookkeeper’s assistant to the attorney general.

Tonight she wore a Vera Wang original and Cartier jewels. An invisible fog of Gucci Rush surrounded her.

“Wow,” said Elaine. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were from central casting. You look perfect, Mom.”

Freddie smiled and held out both hands. “Hello, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”

They leaned toward each other but didn’t touch except for their hands. Both were conscious of not wanting to disturb the other’s porcelain-perfect makeup. Freddie stepped away from Elaine and subjected her to a shrewd study. “Wow, yourself,” she said with genuine admiration. “That dress is fabulous.”

Elaine had thought so when she’d first put it on. Over a long-sleeved tunic of black Sea Isle cotton, the designer had draped a shimmery mesh of babyfine gold cord.

“You think?” she asked, realizing how much she had always sought her mother’s good opinion by trying to appear just right. “It reminds me of chains. Didn’t Marley’s ghost wear chains?”

“Merry Christmas,” called a jovial voice. Banner St. James joined them, timelessly handsome in his crisp Armani tux.

Elaine greeted her father with cordial warmth, and regarded both her parents with a certain diffuse wistfulness. Despite that she was an only child, they weren’t really a close family. Her most cherished Christmas memory was the year of the biggest blizzard in the history of the city. Socked in by a record snowfall and extended power outage, the three of them had slept together under duvets in the living room around the fireplace. They’d fixed canned soup and crackers for supper, then played board games by candlelight. Something about the slow rhythm of that magical day had fulfilled her more than any international ski trip or luxury cruise.

She did not doubt that her parents loved her, or she them, but they had never shared the sort of easy, natural affection she sometimes observed in families that were less busy, less self-conscious, less preoccupied with appearances.