For all its pomp, the ceremony was brief and business-like. Judge Merrick pronounced Sidney and Anna Goldstein man and wife, and while I stood off to the side holding Anna’s wilting bouquet and trying not to scratch at the stiff underpinnings of my flower girl dress, I saw for the first time my father and Anna kiss.

Initially, things didn’t seem terrible. I got to stay with Nicole and Steffi for a whole week while Daddy and Anna flew off for their honeymoon at the Venice Film Festival, a plan allowing my father to conduct business. Staying with Steffi was always a good time, she lit incense and blasted rock and roll music, and taught Nicole and me the latest dance moves. We stayed up even on the school nights whispering about boys, gossiping about the girls at school, and comparing our breast sizes; Nicole was, at twelve, already breaching a B cup while I was still flat as a board, though encouragingly, one nipple was plumping up. When Daddy and Anna came home, however, my father announced that we were in for some “big changes.” Anna had stepped into her new job as Mrs. Goldstein, and it was time to find her replacement.

The first one came and went in a week; a tall Scandinavian with patience neither for an angry twelve-year-old nor for vacuuming sand from every crease and corner of the house.

The second lasted less than a day.

“Jackie, why did you speak to Ylena so rudely?” Anna admonished.

“Hell-ena you mean?”

“Jackie!”

“She kept telling me what to do.”

“But calling names—”

“She smelled bad!”

“Now, when you meet Jordana–”

“Whore-dana?”

It was one thing for Anna to marry my father. I had no control over what they did. But no stranger was going to take Anna’s place in either my home or my heart.

Ellen Boshwitz had taken a shine to Anna and had joined forces with Rita Sanderson and Marge Calloway in teaching Anna the ropes. They plied her with tips and advice during long lunches followed by shopping binges on Rodeo Drive. She, in turn, flattered them with her gratitude for their benevolence and proudly demonstrated the fruits of their labor. Anna was a quick study. Her wardrobe filled with Chanel suits, Hermes scarves, Gucci shoes and purses. The clothes in which my mother was haplessly out of place, Anna wore with style and grace. Jose Eber cut and streaked her rich, dark hair, she never missed her weekly facial and manicure. And those tender hands that had washed my bottom, those hands I had clutched as I crossed the street or jumped on the bed, those beautiful hands so common and good and pure, now sported a huge diamond ring and a set of long, acrylic, maroon scratchers.