Joan emerged from her study, holding the wall on her way downstairs, coming into the kitchen as Neeva, the children’s wonderful nanny, was clearing away the dinner mess, running a damp cloth over the table crumbs. “Oh, Neeva, I could have done that,” said Joan, not meaning a word of it, walking right to the tall glass cabinet where she kept their medicine. Neeva was a Haitian grandmother who lived in Yonkers, one town over. She was sixty-something, but looked basically ageless, always wearing a long ankle-length floral dress and comfortable Converse sneakers. Neeva was a much-needed calming influence in the Luss home. They were a busy bunch, what with Roger’s traveling and Joan’s long hours in the city and the children’s school and programs in between, everyone going in sixteen different directions. Neeva was the family rudder, and Joan’s secret weapon in keeping the household running right.

“Joan, you don’t look so good.”

“Joan” and “don’t” came out sounding like “Jon” and “don” in Neeva’s island lilt.

“Oh, I’m just a little run-down.” She popped some Motrin and two Flexerils and sat down at the kitchen island, opening House Beautiful.

“You should eat,” said Neeva.

“Hurts to swallow,” said Joan.

“Soup, then,” decreed Neeva, and set about getting it for her.

Neeva was a mother figure for all of them, not just the children. And why shouldn’t Joan have some mothering too? God knows, her real mother—twice divorced, living in an apartment in Hialeah, Florida—wasn’t up to the task. And the best part? When Neeva’s doting ways became too annoying, Joan could simply send her away on an errand with the kiddies. Best. Arrangement. Ever.

“I hear about that air-o-plane.” Neeva looked back at Joan from the can opener. “No good. An evil thing.”

Joan smiled at Neeva and her adorable little tropical superstitions—the smile cut abruptly short by a sharp pain in her jaw.

While the soup bowl rotated in the whirring microwave, Neeva came back to look at Joan, laying her roughened brown hand against Joan’s forehead, exploring the glandular region of Joan’s neck with gray-nailed fingers. Joan pulled back in pain.

“Swollen bad,” Neeva said.

Joan closed the magazine. “Maybe I should go back to bed.”

Neeva stood back, looking at her strangely. “You should go back to hospital.”

Joan would have laughed if she knew it wouldn’t hurt. Back to Queens? “Trust me, Neeva. I am much better off here in your hands. Besides—take it from one who knows. That whole hospital thing was an insurance ploy on the airline’s behalf. All for their benefit—not mine.”

As she rubbed her sore, swollen neck, Joan envisioned the impending lawsuit, and once again her spirits soared. She glanced around the kitchen. Funny how a house she had spent so much time and money redecorating and re-renovating could appear so suddenly…shabby.

Camins, Peters, Lilly…and Luss.