This new Anna reveled in her position as Mrs. Goldstein. Twenty carats spilled from her wrist and neck, accessorizing the designer tennis clothes she often wore. Though she’d never played the sport, Anna loved the starchy skirts and stretchy blouses. Or sometimes, when the weather was chilly, she would shed her skirt for the comfort of a velour warm-up suit. Several days a week, she’d limo down the Pacific Coast Highway to lunch with Rita and other grand dames of Hollywood society; all wives of powerful and influential husbands.

“I yam telling ju girrrrls—” Anna spoke softly but her accent—which had once all but disappeared—was now cunningly and charmingly back in full employ. Rather than hiding from her past, she had cleverly chosen to use it to her advantage, weaving her history into provocative entertainment. “Leetle Yackie called dee cops, and dey busted down dee door of dee bedroom before dey saw eet was Seednee end me, bof of us nekked wid hees ju know what jez hanging dere in dee breeze.”

She’d always had a knack for storytelling. When I was younger, Anna told me Bible stories that sounded more like plotlines from the soaps we watched. The luncheon ladies screamed with laughter, dabbed at their eyes, and squeezed Anna’s bejeweled hands with their own. By the time the meal was over, Anna was on the board of another committee or function, and the ladies would pat each other’s backs and return to their respective mansions, proud of themselves for having treated “a Hispanic” (“Was she a Mexican, or Salvadoran?” they would ask each other later) as nicely as if she were one of their own.

Between her commitments and my father’s need for companionship, Anna rarely had time for me. Now when I came home from school, a brown, beige, or pink-skinned stranger wearing a white apron would meet me at the door with an Entenmann's donut and a note from Anna outlining my itinerary for the day.

INT. MALIBU COLONY HOME

EVENING

1982

“Jackie, Anna, I need to see you in my study.” My father called from downstairs. It was nine-thirty at night, and I was lying on my bed, still in my bathing suit, doing my math homework and listening to Nicole on the phone complaining about her mom’s latest boyfriend, some sleaze bag she’d picked up at Alice’s Bar the weekend before.

“Jackie.” Anna peeked her head inside my room and waved urgently.

I hung up the phone, pulled on a T-shirt, and clomped downstairs to Daddy’s study, hopping over the vacuum cleaner lying on its side in the living room. That morning, our latest housekeeper had quit when I once again tracked sand all over the freshly cleaned carpet.