Ted had asked, fifteen years ago, if she was sure about Erin, the first assistant they hired to be hers, not theirs. From now on, they would have his and hers chiefs of staff. Holly liked that hers would be close to her age, that she didn’t fit the mold of the assistants Ted usually chose. Erin wasn’t strident or intellectually superior; she was a wraith, a poet with a degree in library science and not the least bit ambitious. Holly had even thought, briefly, that they would be friends—although that was before she understood about money, that you could never fully discount the effect of it on your relationships, no matter how much of it you gave away or to whom. Erin worked for Holly, not the other way around, so confidences would only ever flow in one direction. No matter how much Holly had tried over the years to pump Erin for information—about men, her friends, her sisters, other poets—or how many secrets Holly had shared—about the bass player she’d dated in college, the funny things Ted muttered in his sleep (Land ho! he’d yelped once and then hugged his pillow), which actors at the Golden Globes were sloppy drunk before the show even began and who iced out who during the commercial breaks—Erin never fully let her guard down with Holly. On the other hand, she never tried to make things all about herself either. She was at the estate every morning by 8:00 a.m. and often stayed until eight or nine at night, even when she was pregnant. Still, there were moments when Erin’s ability to disappear into the background was a little bit creepy.

“We need to tie a bell around your neck,” Holly said. And then she laughed and hugged her to show there were no hard feelings.

“I have your speech,” Erin said, opening up her leather portfolio to show Holly the crisp pages. “And we’ll review the details for tonight on the ride over.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you at the car. Just give me a minute.”