“Rutgers isn’t Harvard, but Peter DeFiore is an expert on the local courts, which will be a defining factor in Billy’s case. Still, you can watch him in action. If you’re still uncomfortable, hire someone else.”

“I’m sure he’s a fine lawyer, but we need the best—”

“—of the best. I know, Eleanor.”

“Yes, someone at the top of his field. But, equally important, we need someone who understands families like ours. Money is not a concern,” she adds, as if I needed the reminder.

For Eleanor, money isn’t emotional nor is it pleasurable. Money isn’t even interesting. Money just is. Her family staked their claim in gunpowder during the French revolution, and then expanded to dynamite, plastic, oils, and chemical manufacturing—the raw materials of daily life. Their fortune has been compounding for generations. Eleanor Anne Stockton Quinn is a socialite. My peers consider this label unflattering; these days, we’re socialite-entrepreneurs and socialite-artists, with handbag lines, poetry collections, and podcasts. But Eleanor is first and foremost a lady who lunches. I don’t mean to suggest her lunches are vacuous, only to point out that her preoccupations are different from yours and mine.

“Eleanor, listen. His reputation is outstanding. Burt, in fact, recommended him. Would you feel better if you were the one who hired him?”

“If I hadn’t been told after the fact? Maybe. Even so, his coarseness doesn’t sit right.”

“You mean his girth.”

“Excuse me?”

“Peter DeFiore is fat.”

“Cassie, I didn’t see his body. Earlier, I saw him on video, but only from the waist up.”

“I’m sure you got the gist of him. DeFiore is ungainly and sloppy, and you’re wondering how a man who can’t manage his person will effectively represent your son. Here’s the thing, Eleanor.” My voice is as solemn as a priest’s. “Not only are fat people competent, but fat-shaming is très déclassé these days.”

“Do you really think I’m that shallow, Cassie?” Eleanor smiles.

“Not shallow, per se.” I smile back. “Discriminating.”

“Let’s get one thing straight. The only person’s appearance I care about is yours. And it pains me to say this, but God Almighty, Sweet Girl; you are a fright.”

Eleanor isn’t physically demonstrative, so when she reaches out to smooth my hair, I light up from within. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Which is what I mean by insatiable urges. The poor woman has already given me the keys to the kingdom and the family jewels. Still, I want more.

“Seriously, Cassandra. When was your last trim? Tomorrow is devoted to Billy. I want to bring him home and get him settled. But Tuesday, we’ll take care of you: tip-to-toe, hair and nails. I’ll make the appointments.” She glances up, like she thinks I’ll disagree, though we both know I won’t.