Everyone worth Knowing -Lauren Weisberger 4

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16
I resumed my calling seven hours later, desperate to explain to
Penelope that it wasn't how it appeared, but no one was answering.
Avery finally picked up the phone a little after noon, sounding
groggy and slightly hung over.
"Hey, Bette, what's up?"
"Hi, Avery. Is Penelope there, please?" I had zero interest in exchanging
any words with him past the required minimum.
There was a rustle and something that sounded suspiciously
like a whisper before Avery said, "Actually, she's at her parents' for
brunch today. Can I leave her a message?"
"Avery, please put her on. I know she's there and I know she's
upset with me and I want to explain everything. It's not really how
it looked." I was pleading.
His voice got lower and more conspiratorial; he was trying to
talk so Penelope couldn't hear. "Hey, Bette? Don't worry about it. I
would've rather been at Caleb's party last night, too. Trust me—if
there was any way I could've gotten out of that miserable dinner
last night, I would've been right there with you. Pen's just overreacting."
Of course Avery would know about the party. I felt ill.
"It wasn't like that, Avery. I wouldn't have rather been—" I realized
I was justifying my actions to the wrong person. "Can you
just put her on?"
There was some more rustling and a muffled call and then
Penelope was saying hello as though she didn't know I was the
one on the other end.
"Hey, Pen. It's me. How are you?"
"Oh, Bette. Hello. I'm fine, how are you?"

The conversation felt distinctly like dozens I'd had with my
overly polite but slightly senile great-grandmother. Clearly, Penelope
was every bit as furious with me as I'd feared.
"Pen, I know you don't want to talk to me right now. I'm sorry
if Avery tricked you into picking up the phone, but I really want to
apologize. It didn't go down last night the way it appeared."
Silence.
"I got a call from work saying that some people from the
BlackBerry account were in town unexpectedly and I had to go
meet them. I'm in charge of their event this week, and there's just
no way I could've refused to stop in and say hello."
"Yes, that's what you said." Her voice was ice-cold.
"Well, that's exactly what happened. I was planning to run over
there for an hour and do my thing and then hopefully make it
back before dessert. I was waiting for the car Elisa said she'd send
when Philip showed up. Apparently Elisa sent him to get me instead
of the car since the BlackBerry people wanted to meet him,
too. I had no idea, Pen, seriously."
There was a pause and then she said, very quietly, "Avery said
everyone saw you at some guy's birthday party downtown. That
doesn't sound like work to me."
I was more than a little creeped out by the "everyone saw you"
comment but rushed on to explain what had actually transpired. "I
know, Pen, I know. Philip told me that Elisa'd told him that we
were going to meet Kelly there."
"Oh. Did the meeting go well?" She sounded like she was
thawing a bit, but this next part wasn't going to do much to help it
along.
"No, I didn't even get to meet them. Apparently, they got tired
and headed back to their hotel after having a drink with Kelly. At
that point, it was one A.M.! I couldn't get back to you. I'm so sorry,
Pen. I left your going-away dinner because I thought I had no
choice, and it all ended up being for no reason whatsoever." It
sucked, but at least it was true.
"Why didn't you come to the Black Door?" she asked. But then
her voice softened. "I knew you wouldn't have left just to go to some
party," she said. "Avery kept insisting that you'd invented that whole

work story because this was going to be the most amazing birthday
party ever, but I didn't really think you'd do that. It just got harder to
believe when I saw you ride off with Philip."
I wanted to strangle Avery with the phone cord, but I was finally
making progress with Penelope and had to concentrate on
that. "You know I'd never do that, Pen. There was nowhere else I
wanted to be last night. And if it's any comfort, it was a horror of
an evening. Absolutely, positively, undeniably not fun."
"Well, I'm sure I'll read about it online this week." She said it
lightly and laughed, but I could tell she was still upset. "Speaking
of which, did you see this morning's edition?"
My heart skipped a very small beat. "This morning? It's Sunday!
What are you talking about?"
"Oh, it wasn't nearly as bad as some of the others. Don't
worry," she rushed to say. I knew she intended to make me feel
better, but her statement had the opposite effect. "Avery showed
me a few minutes ago. It just has some snarky comment about
how you were wearing a business suit to a costume party."
It was incredible! Relatively speaking, the installment was totally
innocuous, but for some reason it was even more upsetting
than all the lies and misrepresentations about my nighttime activities:
if I couldn't even make clothing choices without inviting public
commentary, there was not a shred of privacy left.
"Great. That's just great" was about all I could manage to say.
"Well, as evidenced by the fact that I did indeed wear a suit to a
costume party last night, you can see that I wasn't planning on
leaving your dinner."
"I know, Bette. We're past that, okay?"
We were about to hang up when I remembered that I hadn't
invited Penelope to the BlackBerry party.
"Hey, Pen, why don't you come on Tuesday? Bring Avery if
you want, or just come by yourself. It should be fun."
"Really?" she asked, sounding pleased. "Sure, that sounds great.
You and I can finally sit down and catch up. It feels like it's been a
while, doesn't it?"
"I'd love to, Pen. All I want to do is sneak off to some corner

and make fun of everyone we see, but I should tell you now that
I'm not going to have a free second. I'm in charge of the whole
thing, and I just know I'll be racing around, dealing with a hundred
things. I'd love for you to come by, but it won't be the best
night for catching up."
"Oh, right. Of course. I knew that," she said.
"What about right after Thanksgiving?" I asked. "We could have
dinner alone, just the two of us, before you go."
"Uh, sure. Why don't we play it by ear?" I'd lost her again; she
sounded desperate to hang up.
"Okay. Well, uh, I'm sorry again about last night. I'm looking
forward to next week . . ."
"Mmm. Have a good day, Bette. Bye."
"Bye, Pen. Talk to you soon."

17
When you're twenty-seven and the phone rings in the middle
of the night, you're apt to think it's some guy drunk-dialing
an invitation to come over and "hang out" rather than a workrelated
disaster that will surely change your life forever. Not so
the night before the BlackBerry party. When my cell phone blared
at three-thirty in the morning, I was certain I would have to
deal.
"Is this Betty?" an older woman asked as soon as I'd flipped
open the phone.
"Hello? Who is this? This is Bette," I said, still groggy even
though I'd already bolted upright and had a pen in hand.
"Betty, this is Mrs. Carter," the woman's voice said.
"I'm sorry. Could you say your name again, please?"
"Mrs. Carter." Silence. "Jay-Z's mama."
Aha! "Hi, Mrs. Carter." I thought about the way I'd separated
the invites on the party list and how Mrs. Carter was the only person
who was cross-referenced as "Celeb Mother."
"We are just so excited to be hosting your son and his whole
pos—uh, his friends tomorrow. Everyone's just really looking forward
to it!" I said, silently congratulating myself on the feigned sincerity
I heard in my own voice.
"Yes, dear, well, that's why I'm calling. Is this too late? I figured
a big party planner like yourself would definitely still be awake at
midnight. I wasn't wrong, was I, sweetheart?"
"Urn, no, not at all. Of course, I am in New York, so it's three
in the morning here, but please don't worry about a thing. You
could call me anytime. Is something wrong?" Please no, please no,

please no, I chanted silently, wondering what else I could add to
the $150,000 paycheck, penthouse suites at the Hotel Gansevoort,
and business-class plane tickets we'd thrown in for the man, his
mom, his superstar girlfriend, and his nine closest friends. When
I'd asked why they needed hotel rooms at all—even I knew Jay-Z
had a palatial New York pad—his mom had laughed and said, "Just
book it."
"Well, dear, my son just called and said he really doesn't see
the need to take a flight that early tomorrow. He was hoping you
could book us all on something later."
"Something later?"
"Yes, you know, a flight that gets in later than the one already—"
"I understand what you mean," I said a little too sharply. "It's
just that the event starts at seven and as of now you're all scheduled
to land at two. If we make it any later, there's a chance you
won't arrive in time."
"Well, I'm sure you'll figure that all out, dear. I've really got to
be getting some rest for our big travel day tomorrow—that LA-to-
New York leg always tuckers me out—but just fax me the confirmation
when it's all fixed. Ta-ta now." And she hung up before I
could say another word.
Ta-ta? Ta-fucking-ta? I threw my cell phone against the wall and
felt absolutely no satisfaction when it made a weak bleating sound,
right before the battery cover popped off and the screen went blank.
Millington had buried her face under my pillow hoping to escape my
wrath. I wondered if it wasn't too late in life to develop a severe and
all-consuming addiction to tranquilizers. Or painkillers. Or both.
Blessedly, the airlines were open all night, and I was dialing American
from my land line before I could damage any more of my belongings.
The operator who answered sounded just as tired and hassled
as I felt, and I braced myself for what would surely be an unpleasant
interaction.
"Hi, I have an annoying question. I made reservations for a
party of twelve to fly from LAX to JFK on your eight A.M. flight and

I was hoping I could change them all to something just slightly
later?"
"Name!" she barked, sounding not just disinterested, which I
expected, but downright hostile. I wondered if she was going to
"accidentally" disconnect me just because she didn't feel like dealing.
I could almost understand.
"Urn, the reservation is actually under Gloria Carter. They're all
flying business class."
There was a moment of heavy silence before she said,
"Gloria Carter? As in the Gloria Carter? As in the mother of
Jay-Z?"
How on earth people knew these things was a mystery to me,
but I sensed a momentary advantage and went for it. "That's the
one. He's flying to New York to perform, along with a few friends
and his mother. Of course, if you're based in New York and you
could work this out, you'd be more than welcome to come by and
hear him sing his set."
She exhaled audibly and said, "No way! Really? I'm actually
working out of our call center in Tampa right now, but my brother
lives in Queens, and I just know he'd love to go."
"Well, let's see what we can do about changing that flight. I
don't want them coming in too late—maybe just an hour or two
later, max. Is that flight usually on time?"
"Honey, LAX to JFK is never on time." I cringed. "But it's usually
not too bad. Let's see, I've got a flight leaving Los Angeles at
ten A.M. arriving Newark at four. Would that work?"
"Yes, yes, that would work just fine. And you have twelve open
seats?" I asked hopefully, thinking that this woman just might be
the best thing that ever happened to me.
She laughed. Or, rather, cackled. A bad sign. "Sure, I've got
twelve seats open, but they're not all business. The best I can do is
four in business, six in first class, and two in coach. You'll of
course need to pay the difference for the first-class seats, which
comes to, oh, let me see here . . . a total of seventeen thousand
dollars. Does that work?"
It was my turn to laugh. Not that anything was actually funny,

of course, but the only alternative was weeping. "Do I have a
choice?" I asked meekly.
"You sure don't," she said, sounding suspiciously like she was
enjoying this. "And you should probably make up your mind soon
because another business-class seat just disappeared."
"Book it!" I practically screamed. "Book it right now."
I gave her my corporate card number, rationalizing that it was
better than telling Mrs. Carter there were no later flights and having
them cancel altogether, and fell back under the covers.
When the alarm blared static a couple hours later, I felt like I'd
spent the night curled up on a hard cement floor. Blessedly, I'd already
packed my outfit for the night's party in a separate bag, so
the only real task was to remain standing and fully conscious in
the shower.
Figuring if there was ever a time to splurge for a cab it was
now, I chased one halfway down my block and dove into it headfirst.
Not being stuck underground in the signal-free subway also
allowed me to check a few of the morning's websites from my
brand-new BlackBerry, a gift from the company's corporate department
so I could "familiarize myself with their product." I pulled
clips of the Shrek 3 premiere, the Grey Goose relaunch, and of
course the New York Scoop column featuring Philip, me, and my
pantsuit.
Naturally, the cab got stuck in gridlock less than three blocks
from my apartment, and naturally I decided—against the cabbie's
advice—to remain in the temperature-controlled vehicle at all
costs, regardless of how high the meter ran or how many minutes
it took to cover an eighth of a mile. I needed to complete the
check-list for the BlackBerry event. With Red Hots and an earlymorning
cigarette in hand (the cabbie had given me his blessing), I
checked my cell phone to ensure that Mrs. Carter hadn't left a message
in the four hours since I'd last spoken to her. To my great relief,
she hadn't called, but neither had Penelope, and that was
disconcerting. My attempts to explain that it wasn't what it appeared,
that Philip had just shown up and I hadn't lied to get out
of her dinner, had sounded flat and pathetic even to my own ears,

and I imagine to Penelope they sounded even less believable. The
worst part of it all was that she and Avery had switched their tickets
and were flying out tonight. I didn't understand what the big
rush was—especially since Avery wouldn't be starting school for
over a month—but I imagined it had something to do with Avery's
eagerness to embark upon a brand-new West Coast party circuit.
That and the fact that Penelope would do anything to avoid spending
Thanksgiving with either her or Avery's parents. Penelope's
mother had dispatched her own domestic staff to collect their
boxes and suitcases and ship them ahead, and Avery and Pen
were set to fly out of JFK, with their carry-ons and each other.
Michael was planning to see them off, but it wasn't even an option
for me.
The only message was from Kelly, a text reminding me to have
my checklist filled out and on her desk first thing that morning so
we could go over the last-minute stuff together. I unfolded its nowcrumpled
pages and pulled the pen cap off with my teeth. I stared
at them for the few remaining minutes in the cab processing nothing.
I'd have plenty of time before she got in, and the most important
thing right now was to make sure Jay-Z and his entourage
knew about the flight change and got on that plane with absolutely
no problems.
A quick scan of the Dirt Alert revealed good news for once.
Page Six had upheld their end of the bargain and written about my
party in a way that made it sound exclusive, exciting, and really,
really cool:
We hear that Jay-Z will be making a surprise appearance at
tonight's party at Bungalow 8 to celebrate the launch of Black-
Berry's redesigned handhelds. While Bette Robinson of Kelly &
Company declined to confirm, watchers insist that boyfriend
Philip Weston's friendship with the rapper ensures he's the
mystery guest. In a related tidbit, Mr. Weston and friends were
spotted at a Saturday-night birthday party canoodling with Brazilian
models, the youngest of whom was a mere fourteen
years old.

I couldn't have been happier if they'd provided a web address
for ordering the new BlackBerry: everything was exactly as I'd directed,
and I knew Kelly would be deliriously excited when she
saw it. I patted myself on the back, pleased with this mention, and
thought back to one of Elisa's mini-lessons to me.
"Remember, there's a big difference between scoop and favor,"
she'd said, spreading printouts of gossip columns all over the table
at work.
I stared at them. "What? What do you mean?"
"Well, look here." She pointed to a couple of sentences from an
on-set stylist who'd first noticed that Julia Roberts needed to have
her costumes let out because, the girl assumed, Julia was newly
pregnant. Page Six had been the first to talk to the stylist, who'd
been the first to notice this shift. "What is that—scoop or favor?"
"You're asking me?"
"Bette, you need to know these things. How else are you going
to get our clients the coverage they pay us for?"
"I don't know . . . it's scoop," I said, choosing one of the words
at random.
"Right. Why?"
"Elisa, I appreciate that there's something important here, but I
don't know what it is. But if you'd tell me rather than quizzing me,
it'd probably save us both a lot of time. . . ."
She'd rolled her eyes dramatically and said, "If you look carefully,
there's a difference between 'scoop' and 'favor.' Something
juicy and revealing and slightly scandalous is 'scoop.' A celebrity
spotting at a party or in public, or a mention of somewhere they've
been, is a 'favor.' You can't ask the columnists for all favors without
giving them scoop. Information is currency, and the more you
have of it, the more favors you get."
"So you're saying that some publicist out there wanted her
client's name mentioned in the column and provided this bit about
Julia Roberts in exchange?" It sounded so sordid, but it certainly
made sense.
"Exactly. The publicist hand-delivered that stylist to Page Six
and then made demands for coverage of her own."
Well, that didn't seem too hard. Perhaps Page Six might be interested
in knowing that quite a few of the city's most eligible
bachelors had been keeping company with certain Brazilian girls
who were not just underage, but who were years away from attending
an R-rated movie without parental accompaniment. In fact,
they had been interested, and when I followed up with the usual
Tip Sheet we prepared for all the press—the blast-fax that went out
with all the information about the party should anyone want to
write about it—a researcher had expressed enthusiasm in possibly
mentioning the BlackBerry party. Hmm, that wasn't hard, now was
it? Morally abject and devoid of all integrity? Absolutely. But difficult
it was not.
By the time Kelly had descended upon the office at nine, I'd
completed the checklist and triple-checked that the plane-change
fax had gone through to Jay-Z's compound and his mother's compound,
as well as to his publicist, agent, manager, and a half-dozen
other handlers. I marched into her office at ten after nine with an
entire file folder of schedules, contact information, and confirmation
numbers and planted myself in the zebra-print loveseat directly
underneath the window.
"Are we all set for tonight, Bette?" she asked, scrolling rapidly
through her inbox while slugging back a liter of Diet Coke. "Tell
me we're good."
"We're good," I sang, thrusting the Post under her nose. "And
even better, considering this."
She scanned the piece hungrily, her smile growing ever larger
with each word she read. "Ohmigod," she murmured, barely swallowing
a mouthful of soda. "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. Was
this you?"
It was all I could do not to do a little jig right there on the
zebra-print shag carpet. "It was," I said quietly, confidently, although
my insides were flipping with excitement.
"How? They never cover events before they happen."
"Let's just say I listened very carefully to Elisa's valuable lesson
on the concepts of scoop and favor. I think the BlackBerry people
will be happy, don't you?"
"Fan-fucking-tastic, Bette. This is amazing!" She began reading
it for a third time and picked up the phone. "Fax this to Mr. Kroner
at BlackBeriy immediately. Tell him I'll call him shortly." She hung
up and looked up at me. "Okay, we're off to a perfect start. Give
me an update on where everything stands."
"Sure thing. Tip sheets went out ten days ago to all the usual
dailies and weeklies." I handed over a copy and continued while
she surveyed it. "We have confirmed attendance for writers or editors
from New York magazine, Gotham, the Obsewei; E!, Entertainment
Weekly, the New York Post, Variety, and the Styles section. I
approved a few people from the monthlies as a gesture of goodwill,
even though they'll never cover it."
"What about the Daily News?" she asked. They were one of the
papers that had just dropped Will's column, and I'd felt like a traitor
for even contacting them.
"So far no one's RSVP'd, but I'd be shocked if someone wasn't
there, so all the doormen have been instructed to allow admittance
to anyone in possession of a business card from a legitimate media
outlet."
She nodded. "Speaking of which, we are controlling the door,
correct? I will not have any of the Grey Goose people trying to
bring randoms, will I?"
This was a slightly sticky point. Grey Goose had offered to
sponsor the event and put up thousands of dollars' worth of free
booze in exchange for a logo on the invite and the press we'd
promised would be there. They claimed they understood they
wouldn't be permitted to allow guests who weren't prescreened by
us and placed on the list in advance, but sponsors were notorious
for dragging in dozens of their friends and associates because they
thought it was their party, too. I'd discussed it with Sammy—unnecessary
because he'd done hundreds of these and knew the drill—
and he'd assured me that it wouldn't be a problem.
"Everyone will be trying their best to ensure that doesn't
happen. Sammy is the best and most senior bouncer at Bungalow,
and he'll be in charge of the door tonight. I've spoken with
him." And simultaneously dreamed of draining the collagen
right out of bis girlfriend's lips, I thought, but that was a different
story.
Unlike Elisa, Kelly connected the name and the person immediately.
"Excellent. I always thought he was bright, at least as far as
bouncers go. What VIPs do we have confirmed?"
"Well, obviously Jay-Z and crew. He requested that a whole
contingent from his record label be invited, but most didn't respond
to invitations, so I don't think many will show. Otherwise,
we've got Chloe Sevigny, Betsey Johnson, Drew Barrymore, Carson
Daly, Andy Roddick, Mary-Kate and Ashley, and Jon Stewart as
definites. Also a handful of top-tier socialites. There might be more.
When you've got an artist that big doing a private performance at a
small venue . . . I'd be shocked if we didn't get unannounced visits
from Gwen or Nelly or anyone else who might be in town and
around. The door has been informed."
"And who did the final vetting of the list?"
"I went over it with both Philip and Elisa, with Mr. Kroner at
BlackBerry having final approval over everything. He seemed very,
very happy with the projected attendees."
Kelly finished off her bottle of Diet Coke and reached into the
fridge underneath her desk to pull out another one. "What else?
Give me the quick rundown on decorations, gift bags, interviews,
chain of command."
I could tell we were nearing the end, and 1 was thrilled, not
just because I desperately needed another coffee and perhaps a
second egg-and-cheese, but because I knew I was nailing this
party and Kelly was impressed. I'd been working on it all day,
every day since it'd been thrown in my lap, and even though I
could recognize the ridiculousness of what we were doing, I liked
it. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to work hard and do well,
but it was damn nice.
"Samantha Ronson is DJing and knows to keep things upbeat.
Bungalow is taking care of the decorations, with instructions to
keep it minimal, chic, and very, very simple. I'll head over there
this afternoon to check it out, but I'm really only expecting a few
clusters of well-placed votives and, of course, the underlit palm
trees. I think all the models we've got coming will be the primary
attraction."
At the word model, Kelly perked up even more. "How many
and who are they?" she asked with the efficiency of a drill
sergeant.
"Well, I invited all the supermodels as guests, as always, and
then we went with that new company—what's it called? Beautiful
Bartenders. They hire out actors and models to tend bar
and serve drinks. I saw a bunch of them working a Calvin Klein
event two weeks ago and reserved a fleet of the guys, requesting
that they all have long hair and wear head-to-toe white. They're
magnificent and really make a statement." Did I just say that? I
thought.
"As for everything else, the interns are putting together the gift
bags now. They've got airplane bottles of Grey Goose, MAC lipstick
and eye shadow, a copy of the current issue of US Weekly, a
gift certificate for thirty percent off at Barney's Co-op, and a pair of
Kate Spade sunglasses."
"I wasn't aware Kate Spade even made sunglasses," Kelly said,
now nearly finished with the second liter of Diet Coke.
"Neither was I. I guess that's why she wants them in the gift
bag." When she kept gulping, I figured I'd better wrap things up.
"So that's really it. I've touched base with Mr. Kroner, and he understands
exactly what he's to highlight and avoid when talking to
the press, and I'll be there the entire night to oversee glitches. All
in all, I expect everything should go very smoothly. Oh, and I've
spoken with Philip and I think he understands that as host of this
event, he shouldn't be drinking entire bottles of vodka, ogling preteens,
or doing drugs openly or with reckless abandon. I can't
guarantee he'll actually play by the rules, but I assure you that he's
at least been informed as to what they are."
"Well, we're all there to have a good time now, aren't we?
So I'm sure if Philip wants to have a little fun, too, we won't be
too uptight about that. Just keep it away from the press. Understood?"
"Of course." I nodded solemnly, wondering how on earth I
was supposed to keep the columnists and photographers away
from the very person they'd been invited to see. I decided I'd deal
with that later. "And Kelly? I can't apologize enough about all that
stuff in New York Scoop. I feel like I have a target on my back just
because I'm supposedly dating Philip Weston. If I were paranoid,
I'd think this Ellie girl was out to get me."
She looked at me strangely, with an expression resembling
pity, and I wondered if all the mentions were bothering her more
than she'd let on. Kelly had brushed off every one of my apologies
about the online column, swearing that any association with Philip
Weston was a good one and that it had only succeeded in raising
the profile of the company, but maybe she was tiring of the attacks.
Which would make two of us.
"Bette, I have something to tell you," Kelly said slowly. She
pulled a new plastic liter bottle of Diet Coke from her under-desk
fridge.
I could tell by the tone of her voice that this wasn't good.
Here it comes, I thought to myself. Here's where I get fired
for something that's completely beyond my control. She looks so
pained to have to do this—after all, she's got such loyalty to Will,
but I've obviously left her no choice. In an industry that revolves
around the press, I've failed miserably. It's actually her duty, her
obligation, to fire me—she built this firm, and I walk in here and
degrade it. How will I tell Will? Or my parents? I had already begun
calculating how long it would take me to rework my resume and
begin applying for other jobs when Kelly took a swig and cleared
her throat.
"Bette, promise me that what I'm about to tell you will never
leave this room."
I audibly exhaled in relief. That didn't sound like the beginning
of a firing speech.
"Of course," I said, the words tumbling out in rushed eagerness.
"If you tell me never to mention it, then of course I won't."
"I had lunch the other day with a woman from Ralph Lauren.
I'm hoping very much to sign them—they'd be our biggest and
most impressive account yet."

I nodded as she continued.
"Which is why it's so crucial that you keep this under wraps. If
the information gets out—if you tell anyone—she'll know it's me,
and we'll never get this account."
"I understand," I said solemnly.
"It concerns New York Scoop . . ."
"You mean Ellie Insider?"
Kelly looked at me. "Yes. As you know, that's merely a pen
name. She's gone to great lengths to keep her identity secret so she
can move around freely and talk to people without their knowing.
I'm not sure if this name means anything to you, but the column is
actually being written by a girl named Abigail Abrams."
I'm not sure how, but I knew a split second before she uttered
the name that it was going to be Abby's. I'd never considered that
the columnist was someone I'd known before—or even someone
I'd met—but somehow, in that momentary flash, I was certain
she'd utter Abby's name. The realization hadn't done anything to
prepare me, however, and I couldn't do anything but stare at Kelly,
my hands tucked under my legs and that same breathless, suffocating
feeling I'd had in fifth-grade gym class when the red rubber
kickball struck my stomach and knocked the wind right out of me.
How could I have been so clueless? How could I not have known? I
struggled to breathe and make sense of what Kelly was saying. All
the awful things that had been written—all the exaggerations and
embellishments and inferences and outright lies—had come from
none other than Abby, the self-proclaimed vortex of the media
world. Why on earth does she hate me so much? I kept thinking
with irrational repetition. Why? Why? Wfjy? Of course we'd never
liked each other; that much was obvious. But what could inspire
her to try to ruin my life? What had I done?
Apparently, Kelly had interpreted my shock as cluelessness because
she said, "Yeah, 1 didn't recognize the name, either. Some
nobody, I guess, which is actually very smart on their part—no one
can be suspicious of someone they don't know. The woman from
Ralph Lauren is married to Abigail's brother, and she swore me to
secrecy. I got the feeling she just wanted to tell someone. Or
maybe she's testing my discretion. It doesn't really matter. Don't
breathe a word of it to anyone, but just in case you run across
that girl, you can make sure she gets the right pictures or information."
I initially thought Kelly was telling me the columnist's identity
so I could avoid her at all costs, but this was clearly not her intention.
She continued. "Now you can feed her all sorts of stuff—be
cool and casual and make it sound like scoop—and we'll have an
even better shot at getting the clients covered."
"Sounds good," I croaked. I couldn't wait to get out of that office
and reread every word Abby had written. How did she have
any access at all? I thought bitterly about how she must have felt
when she'd stumbled into a gold mine that first night at Bungalow
8, the night I'd met Philip. It was all starting to fall into place: she
had been everywhere lately, always appearing out of the woodwork
like a Pop-a-Weasel, ready with a nasty comment or a sneering
look.
"Okay, enough of that. Don't worry about it too much right
now. Just focus on making sure everything works for tonight. It's
going to be great, don't you think?"
I murmured "great" a few times and shuffled out of her office. I
had already begun fantasizing about confronting Abby. There were
a million possibilities, and each sounded delicious. It wasn't until I
was back at the circular table, staring at my laptop, that I realized I
couldn't do one damn thing about it. 1 couldn't tell anyone I knew,
least of all Abby.
I tried to focus. After cutting out the Page Six clipping and taping
it to the center of the office's shared circular desk, I logged on to see
if the plane that would be bringing Jay-Z from LA to New York had
actually left New York on time, which would highly increase the
odds of its arriving in LA—and then coming back again—on schedule.
So far, so good. I assigned two interns to take cars to Newark
and stake out his arrival. This was not particularly necessary, since
the Hotel Gansevoort was sending two stretch limos for them, but I
wanted someone there to visually confirm that he'd arrived and got-
ten in his car without getting distracted by anything along the way. A
quick call to Sammy—be still, my heart—confirmed that the setup
was going smoothly. My to-do list complete, I tried to block out the
thoughts of Abby's viciousness. It was late afternoon, and the only
thing left to do was, well, absolutely nothing.

18
Not only was Jay-Z's plane on time, it was a few minutes early.
He was polite and attentive. Nearly every single person who'd
RSVP'd to the event showed up, and miraculously, the people who
materialized at the door with no invite were all actually people we
would've wanted to come. Mr. Kroner spent the evening tucked
away at a table with his associates, and we made sure the little RESERVED
sign was displayed prominently for them and that a steady
stream of pretty girls stopped by to say hello.
Most surprising was Philip. I'd been terrified he'd do something
in a drunken state to embarrass me or the firm, but he'd kept his
nose clean in every respect and even managed not to bury it in
anyone's cleavage—at least not in front of any photographers,
which is all that really mattered. I'd tried to warn him in a hundred
different ways that, as host, he would need to be friendly to everyone,
but my fear had been totally unfounded. From the moment
he'd stepped inside the front door, he'd performed brilliantly. He'd
rotated among all the groups assembled, shaking hands and nodding
sagely with the corporate types, ordering rounds of shots for
the bankers and mini-champagnes for the models, and backslapping
the celebrities with Clintonian charm. He strolled and
smiled and carried conversations effortlessly, and I watched as men
and women alike fell in love with him. It was instantly clear why
gossip columns tracked him and why women everywhere
swooned when he turned his attention to them. His ability to chat
and joke and listen came so naturally that when he was near, people
were left feeling like the volume had been turned down on
everyone and everything except Philip Weston. They warmed to

his touch, to his presence, and I found myself buzzing right along
with everyone else. I couldn't deny that I was bizarrely drawn to
him.
The only almost-disaster came when Samantha Ronson's flight
from London was canceled and we were left with no DJ. At the
exact same time, I'd received a call from Jake Gyllenhaal's publicist,
asking if he could be placed on the VIP list for the evening.
Having just read an article on do-it-yourself DJing, I asked Jake
and the other confirmed celebs to bring their personal iPods and
DJ for an hour each after Jay-Z did his twenty-minute set. It had
been a huge success; each of the famous names had arrived with
an iPod full of personal favorites, and soon everyone in attendance
knew Jerry Seinfeld's all-time favorite dance song. Everything else
had gone perfectly. There'd been no catfights over the gift bags, no
brawls at the door, pretty much no uninvited drama to distract
from the conveyance of the message: everyone young, hip, urban,
and remotely cool is partying to celebrate BlackBerry, which must
mean that BlackBerry itself is young, hip, urban, and cool. Therefore,
you—whoever you are and wherever you're reading about
this fabulous event—must own one so that you, too, may be
young, hip, urban, and cool.
All in all, the event was a complete success. Kelly was happy,
the client was thrilled (if slightly scandalized and extremely hung
over—apparently Mr. Kroner was unaccustomed to the sort of enthusiastic
and committed drinking that had encompassed the entire
evening), and the photogs had snapped, snapped, snapped just
about every celebrity that our rotating staff of interns and coordinators
physically threw in front of them. And then there was the effect
the evening had on my love life.
Taking a break, I slinked outside under my usual pretense of
wanting a cigarette. I found Sammy reading from another tattered
paperback, Richard Russo's Empire Falls.
"Having fun?" he asked, lighting my cigarette. I'd cupped my
hands around his lighter to protect the flame from the wind and felt
a flutter in my chest when our skin touched. Was it lust, love, or just
early-onset lung cancer? At that moment, it didn't seem to matter.

"Shockingly, yes." I laughed, suddenly feeling that all was right
and good. "If you'd told me a few months ago that I'd be planning
a party at Bungalow 8 with Jay-Z as the entertainment, I would've
thought you were crazy. I hated banking. I'd sort of forgotten what
it was like to want to do something well."
He smiled. "You obviously do this well. Everyone's talking
about you."
"Talking about me? I'm not sure I like the sound of that."
He turned to check a few girls' names against the list and
let them enter. "No, no, all good stuff. Just that you've got this whole
thing figured out and that you know how to put it all together. I
can't remember the last time we had a party here that went this
smoothly."
"Really?" Part of me knew that this whole conversation was utterly
ridiculous—we were, after all, talking about event-planning—
but it was still really nice to hear.
"Sure. The question is, do you like it?"
"Well, like is a strong word for just about anything, don't you
think?" He laughed and I had to physically bury my hands in my
coat pockets to keep from grabbing his face. "It's a far cry from the
Peace Corps, for sure, but it's okay for now."
His face clouded over almost immediately. "Yeah" was about
all he could manage.
"So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" I blurted out, not
realizing that it might sound like I was asking him out when all I
really wanted to do was change the subject. "Going anywhere with
your girlfriend?" I added casually to show him I knew the situation.
He gave me another uncomfortable look, followed by some
obvious squirming, sending the message loud and clear: I had
overstepped my bounds.
"I, uh, I didn't mean anything by—"
"No, no worries," he cut in, leaning backward against the door
as though he felt dizzy. "It's just that, well, it's kind of complicated.
Long story. Anyway, I'm actually going home this weekend. My old
man's not doing so well, and it's been a couple months since I
made it up there."

"Where's home?"
He looked at me curiously, as though he were trying to read
my face, and then said quietly, "Poughkeepsie."
Had he said that he was born and raised in Laos, he could not
have shocked me more. Was he toying with me? Kidding? Had he
found out that I was from Poughkeepsie and going home this
weekend and thought this was funny somehow? A quick check of
his face—smiling sweetly as he watched me process this—indicated
no.
"Poughkeepsie, New York?" was about all I could manage.
"The one and only."
"That's crazy. I'm from there—"
"Yeah, I know. I just didn't ever know if you knew. I remember
you," he said softly, looking out across Twenty-seventh Street
at, as far as I could tell, absolutely nothing.
And, of course, it all came back then. Not that there were so
many clues, but there had always been the sense that he was familiar.
The time we'd stood right here and he'd joked that one of
the girls who'd just gone inside needed a lesson in hippie chic
since her flowing caftan was all wrong, and that she should head
upstate to be schooled by the pros. That day in Starbucks when
he'd brushed his hand up the back of his head and I'd sworn I'd
seen that before. The very first night at Penelope's engagement
party, when he wouldn't let me in and I couldn't shake the feeling
that he was staring at me, almost waiting for me to say something.
It was all so obvious now. Samuel Stevens, the guy in high school
who was too gorgeous for his own good. The guy everyone assumed
was gay because he was big and beautiful and didn't play a
sport, but who instead kept mostly to himself while working at a
few well-known local restaurants. The guy who came across as
conceited and arrogant when we were teenagers and too young to
realize that he was intensely shy, a loner, someone who didn't feel
quite right with any one group of kids. The guy who'd sat at the
table diagonally across from me in shop class, always focused on
the wooden serving trays or gumball machines we were learning to
make, never flirting or spacing or sleeping or whispering with his

tablemates. The guy every girl should have loved but actually
hated because he was somehow beyond her, already looking
ahead, past the idiocy of high school and social hierarchies and
seemingly unaware that anyone else existed. I did a quick calculation
and realized that I hadn't seen him in nearly twelve years. I
was a freshman and he a senior when we had that one shop class
together before he graduated and vanished altogether.
"Mr. Mertz's shop class, 1991, right?"
He nodded.
"Ohmigod, why didn't you say anything before now?" I asked,
pulling out another cigarette. I offered him one and he took it,
lighting first mine and then his own.
"I don't know, I probably should've. 1 just figured you had no
idea. I felt kind of weird not saying something at first and then too
much time went by. But I remember, when everyone else was
sanding and chiseling, you'd always be writing—letters, it looked
like—line after line, page after page, and I always wondered how
anyone could have so much to say. Who was the lucky guy?"
I'd mostly forgotten about the letter-writing; I hadn't written one
of those in years. It was easier now that I no longer heard my parents
asking me what I had done for the world that day. They'd taught me
how to write letters when I was old enough to put sentences on
paper, and I'd instantly loved it. 1 wrote to congressmen, senators,
CEOs, lobbyists, environmental organizations, and, occasionally, the
president. Each night at dinner we'd discuss some great injustice and
the following day I'd write my letter, letting someone know my outrage
about capital punishment or deforestation or foreign-oil dependence
or contraception for teenagers or prohibitive immigration laws.
They were always chock-full of self-importance and read like the
obnoxious, self-righteous missives they were, but my parents were so
lavish with their approval that I couldn't stop. They tapered off at the
end of high school, but it wasn't until some guy I was hooking up
with freshman year in college picked one off my desk and made
some offhand comment about how adorable it was that I was trying
to save the world that I stopped entirely. It wasn't what he said so
much as the timing. My parents' lifestyle was already less appealing.

I had traded the alternative, peace-on-earth persona for a significantly
more mainstream college social life pretty damn fast. Sometimes
I wondered if I'd been just a little too thorough in my rejection.
There was probably a happy medium somewhere, but banking
and—let's be honest—party-planning hadn't exactly put me back on
the track to selflessness.
I realized that Sammy was watching me intently as I recalled
that time and said, "Guy? Oh, they weren't to a boyfriend or anything
like that. Guys didn't exactly dig the dreadlock/espadrille
thing I had going back then. They were just, you know, letters
to . . . I don't know, nothing special."
"Well, I always thought you were pretty cute."
I immediately felt myself blush.
For some reason, this made me happier than if he'd announced
his undying love for me, but there was no time to savor it because
my cell phone bleated with a 911 text message: Doll, where R UP
Need Crista! ASAP.
Why Philip couldn't just ask one of the three dozen male model/
waiters wandering around for that very reason was beyond me, but I
knew I should check on things.
"Listen, I've got to get back in there and make sure everyone is
drunk enough to have fun but not so trashed that they'll do anything
stupid, but I was wondering: do you need a ride home tomorrow?"
"Home? To Poughkeepsie? You're going?"
"I couldn't possibly miss the annual Harvest Festival."
"Harvest Festival?" He once again paused to open the velvet
rope, this time to let in a couple who weren't coordinated enough
to walk but still seemed in possession of enough faculties to grope
each other.
"Don't ask. It's something my parents do every year on Thanksgiving
Day, and my presence is required. I'm pretty positive my
uncle will bail—he always comes up with some pressing obligation
at the last minute—but he'll lend me his car. I'd be happy to give
you a ride," I said, fervently praying that he'd accept and not want
to invite his aging significant other.

"Uh, sure. I mean, if you don't mind, that'd be great. I was just
planning on taking the bus up Thursday morning."
"Well, I was planning to go tomorrow after work, so if you
could go Wednesday instead of Thursday, I'd love to have the
company. I always want to drive the car off the road right around
Peekskill." I cheered myself silently for finally managing to maintain
a normal exchange with this boy.
"Yeah, I'd really like that," he said, looking pleased. Of course,
I'd be pleased, too, if I didn't have to endure a four-hour Greyhound
ride for a trip that normally takes two hours. I assured
myself it was my companionship that convinced him and not just
the chance to escape the gross stickiness and claustrophobia of
the bus.
"Great. Why don't you meet me at my uncle's apartment at,
let's see, maybe around six? He's on Central Park West, northwest
corner of Sixty-eighth Street. Is that okay?"
He had just enough time to say that he was really looking forward
to it before Philip materialized outside and literally dragged
me back inside by the arm. I didn't much mind, though, considering
what I had to look forward to the next day. I floated happily
around the room, accepting compliments from everyone on staff
and listening as guests talked about what a "great scene" we had
going on that night. When the party began to wind down around
two, I pleaded yet another headache to Philip, who seemed happy
to remain behind with Leo and a bottle of Cristal. At home, 1 curled
up in bed with a Slim Jim and a brand-new Harlequin. It was the
most perfect evening I could remember.

19
I could barely contain my excitement as I waited for Sammy in
the lobby of Will's building. That day had dragged on interminably.
Never mind that Kelly had bought the entire office breakfast in celebration
of the previous night's success, or that she'd brought me
into her jungle lair to tell me that she was so impressed with the
evening that she was officially making me second-in-command of
the Playboy party, reporting directly to her. Elisa's face tightened
when the announcement was made; she'd been there a year and a
half longer than me and clearly had expected to oversee the company's
biggest event. But after a few remarks about how she was
happy to "give someone else a chance" at overseeing what would
surely be total chaos, she plastered on a happy face and proposed
celebratory drinks. Newspapers and websites that weren't even at
the party had covered it, breathlessly writing how the "slew of
celebs and socialites" had come out to fete the "hottest new urban
accessory." It almost didn't register when a box arrived directly
from Mr. Kroner's office with enough BlackBerries to stock an entire
wireless store, the note sounding so effusive I was almost embarrassed.
I barely even noticed the few lines in New York Scoop
that announced I'd been spotted sobbing in a corner as Philip
made out with a Nigerian-born soap star, and I didn't get the least
bit upset when Elisa confided to me that she'd "accidentally" gotten
a ride with Philip on his Vespa because "she was so drunk and she
and Davide had gotten in a fight but that nothing—nothing, I
swear on your life and mine—had happened." No, none of that
had even really registered because none of it made the minutes
any shorter or got me in the same car with Sammy any faster.

When he walked through my uncle's lobby's door wearing a pair
of broken-in jeans and a very snuggly sweater, a duffel bag slung
over his shoulder, I didn't know if I'd be able to keep my eyes on
the road long enough to get us out of the city.
"Hey," he said when he saw me sitting on the bench, pretending
to examine the paper. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate
this."
"Don't be ridiculous," I said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him
hello on the cheek. "You're the one doing me the favor. Hold on a
sec, I'll have my uncle come down with the keys."
Will had agreed to lend me his Lexus for the weekend only
after I'd sworn to uphold the story he'd fabricated to explain his
absence. Even though I was just giving Sammy a lift to his parents'
house, he insisted that Sammy be fully apprised of the cover story
as well.
"You promise you've got the details down, darling?" he'd asked
nervously upon relinquishing the keys as the three of us stood in
his underground garage.
"Will, stop stressing. I promise I won't give you up. I shall endure
the suffering alone. As always."
"Humor me. Let's go through it one more time. When she asks
you where I am, what do you say?"
"I simply explain that you and Simon couldn't bear the idea of
spending an entire weekend in a solar-powered house where
there's never enough hot water and the all-natural, undyed sheets
are itchy and nothing's really ever clean since chemicals aren't
used, so instead you decided you'd rather admire the harvest from
your comped beachfront suite in Key West. Oh, yeah, and that you
find it quite dull when the dinner-table conversation consists solely
of ecopolitics. Is that about right?" I smiled sweetly.
He looked helplessly at Sammy and coughed a few times.
"Don't worry, sir, Bette's got the story down," he assured him,
climbing into the passenger seat. "Simon had a last-minute request
to fill in for one of the missing musicians, and you felt it wouldn't
be right to leave him alone on the holiday, as much as you'd like
to see everyone. You would've called them yourself, but you're on

a tight deadline for your bastard of an editor and will call next
week. I'll get her up to speed on the ride."
Will released the keys into my open palm. "Sammy, thank you.
Bette, I want you to pay close attention to the empowerment lectures—
women can do anything, you know—and try not to feel too
bad for little old me, kicking back poolside with a daiquiri and a
paperback."
I wanted to hate him, but he looked so happy with his alibi
and his sneaky plans that I didn't do anything but hug him and
turn on the car. "You owe me for this. As usual." I tucked Millington's
Sherpa Bag in the backseat and tossed a Greenie inside so
she wouldn't cry or whine while we drove.
"You know it, darling. I'll bring you back one of those kitschy
fringed T-shirts, or maybe a coconut candle or two. Deal? Drive
safely. Or don't. Just don't call me if anything happens, at least not
for the next three days. Have fun!" he called, blowing kisses in the
rearview mirror.
"He's great," Sammy said as we worked our way slowly
through traffic up the West Side Highway. "Like a little kid who got
out of school by pretending to be sick."
I stuck Monster Ballads (ordered from an 800 number in an insomniac
three A.M. fit) in the six-disc changer and skipped through
until I found Mr. Big's "To Be with You." "He is really great, isn't
he? I honestly don't know what I would do without him. He's the
only reason I'm normal today."
"What about your parents?"
"They're sixties throwbacks," I said, "and they take it very seriously.
My mother cried the first time I shaved my legs, when I was
thirteen, because she was afraid I'd subjugated myself to the maledictated
cultural expectations of female beauty."
He laughed and started to settle in, stretching out his legs and
putting his hands behind his head. "Please tell me she didn't talk
you out of that particular practice?"
"No, she didn't, at least not now . . . although it took me until
college to shave again. They once insisted that I alone was responsible
for disrupting an entire ecosystem because I bought a snake-

skin keychain. Oh, and then there was the time I wasn't allowed to
go to the biggest slumber party in fourth grade because they noticed
that the parents of the girl hosting it refused to recycle their
newspapers. They thought it was a potentially evil environment for
a child to spend twelve hours in."
"You're joking."
"I'm not. It's not to say they're not really great people, because
they are. They're just really committed. Sometimes I wish I were
more like them."
"I sure didn't know you well in high school, but I remember
you being more like that than, uh, than this New York thing."
I didn't quite know what to say.
"No, I didn't mean it like that," he hastened to say. "You know,
you just always gave the impression of being really involved in so
many causes. I remember you wrote that editorial on a woman's
right to choose in the school paper. I overheard some of the teachers
talking about it in study hall one day—they couldn't believe
you were only a freshman. I read it after I listened to them and I
couldn't believe it, either."
I felt a little frisson at the thought that he'd read and remembered
my article, as though we all of a sudden had an intimate
connection.
"Yeah, well, it's hard to maintain. Especially when it's something
chosen for you, and not something you come upon yourself."
"Fair enough." I could see him nod out of the corner of my
eye. "They sound interesting."
"Oh, you have no idea. Luckily, even though they were hippies,
they were still Jewish hippies, and didn't much love the deprivation
lifestyle. As my father still constantly points out, 'One is no
more convincing coming from a place of poverty than coming
from a place of comfort—it's the argument that matters, not the
material trappings or lack thereof.'"
He stopped sipping his coffee and turned to look at me. I
could feel his eyes on my face and knew that he was listening intently.
"Oh, yes, it's true. I was born on a commune in New Mexico, a
place I wasn't totally convinced was an actual state until I saw the

2000 electoral map on CNN. My mother loves recounting how she
gave birth to me in their 'marriage bed' before all the commune's
children, who'd been brought in to watch the miracle of life unfold
before their little eyes. No doctors, no drugs, no sterile sheets—just
a husband with a degree in plant science, a touchy-feely midwife
who coached with yogic breathing, the commune's chanting guru,
and two dozen children under the age of twelve who most likely
went on to remain virgins well into their thirties after witnessing
that particular miracle."
I don't know what it was that kept me talking. It had been
years and years since I'd told that story to anyone—probably not
since Penelope and I met during orientation week at Emory,
smoked pot in the bushes by the tennis courts, and she admitted
that her father knew his office staff better than his family and that
she'd thought her black nanny was her mother until she was five
years old. I figured there was no better way to cheer her up than
to show her just how normal her own parents were. We'd laughed
for hours that night, stretched out in the grass, stoned and happy.
Though my boyfriends had met my parents, I'd never talked to
anyone about them like this. Sammy made me want to tell him
everything.
"That's absolutely incredible. How long were you there? Do
you remember it?"
"They only lived there until I was two or so, and then they
moved to Poughkeepsie because they got jobs at Vassar. But that's
where my name came from. First they wanted to name me
Soledad, in honor of the California prison that housed Berkeley
protestors, but then their shaman or someone proposed Bettina,
after Bettina Aptheker, the only female member of the Steering
Committee of Berkeley's Free Speech Movement. I refused to answer
to anything but Bette when I was twelve and The Wind Beneath
My Wings' was a hit and Bette Midler was actually cool. By
the time I realized I'd renamed myself after the redheaded singer
of a sappy Top 40 inspirational, it was too late. Everyone calls me
that now, except my parents, of course."
"Wow. They sound so interesting. I'd love to meet them sometime."

I didn't know quite how to respond to that—it might be a bit
unnerving for him if I were to announce that they were his future
in-laws—so I asked him about his parents. Nothing came to mind
when I tried to recall Sammy from high school, and it occurred to
me that I had no clue about his home life. "What about you? Anything
juicy about your family, or are they actually normal?"
"Well, calling them normal seems like a bit of a stretch. My
mom died when I was six. Breast cancer."
I opened my mouth to apologize, to murmur something ineffectual
and cliched, but he cut me off.
"Sounds really shitty, but I was honestly too young to really remember.
It was weird not having a mom growing up, but it was
definitely harder for my older sister, and besides, my dad was
pretty great."
"Is he okay now? You mentioned something about him not
being well."
"No, he's okay. Just lonely, I think. He was dating a woman for
years, and I'm not totally clear on what happened, but she moved
to South Carolina a couple months ago and my dad's not taking it
well. I just thought a visit would be good for him."
"And your sister? What's her story?"
"She's thirty-three. Married with five kids. Five kids—four boys
and a girl—do you believe it? Started right out of high school. She
lives in Fishkill, so she could see my father all the time, but her
husband's kind of a prick and she's busy now that she's going
back to school for nursing, so . . ."
"Are you guys close?" It was strange to see this all shaping up,
a whole world that I never knew existed for him, that I could
never have imagined existing when I saw him slapping backs with
the various moguls and moguls-in-training at Bungalow 8 every
night.
He seemed to think about this for a second as he popped open
the can of Coke he pulled from his backpack, offering me a sip before
he took one.
"Close? I don't know if I'd say that, exactly. I think she resents
that I left home to go to college when she already had one kid and

another on the way. She makes lots of comments about how I'm
Dad's reason for living and at least one of us has a chance of making
him proud—you know, that sort of stuff. But she's a good girl.
Christ, I just got heavy there. Sorry about that."
Before I could say anything, let him know that it was okay, that
I loved hearing him talk about absolutely anything, a Whitesnake
track came on and Sammy laughed again. "Are you serious with
this music? How do you listen to this shit?"
The conversation continued easily after that—just chitchat
about music and movies and the ridiculous people we both dealt
with all day long. He was careful not to mention Philip, and I returned
the favor by steering clear of Isabelle. Otherwise, we talked
as though we'd known each other forever. When I realized we
were only a half-hour outside of town, I called to let my parents
know that I was dropping someone off and would be there
shortly.
"Bettina, don't be ridiculous. Of course you'll bring him by for
dinner!" My mother all but shrieked into the phone.
"Mom, I'm sure he wants to get home. He's here to see his
family, not mine."
"Well, be sure to extend the invitation. We never get to meet
any of your friends, and it would make your father very happy.
And of course, he's more than welcome at the party tomorrow.
Everything's all set and ready to go."
I promised her I'd relay the information and hung up.
"What was that all about?" he asked.
"Oh, my mother wants you to come over for a late dinner, but I
told her you'd probably want to get home to your dad. Besides,
the stuff they try to pass off as food is atrocious."
He was quiet for a second and then said, "Actually, if you don't
mind, that'd be really nice. My old man isn't expecting me until tomorrow,
anyway. Besides, maybe I could help out in the kitchen,
make that tofu a little more palatable." He said this tentatively, trying
to sound indifferent, but I sensed (prayed, hoped, willed) that
there was something more.
"Oh, uh, okay," I said, trying to come across as cool but instead

sounding mortally opposed to the idea. "I mean, if you want, it'd
be great."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. I'll give you a ride home afterward, and I promise not
to keep you trapped any longer than absolutely necessary. Which
will still be long enough for them to try to convert you to a meatfree
lifestyle, but hopefully it'll be bearable." The awkwardness
was over. I was ecstatic. And slightly terrified.
"Okay, that sounds good. After the stories you've told me, I
feel like I have to see them now."
My mother was sitting on the porch swing wrapped in multiple
layers of wool when we pulled into the driveway, which bisected
the nearly six acres of land they'd lived on for a quarter-century.
The hybrid Toyota Prius they kept for emergencies (I often wondered
what they'd think if they knew that Hollywood's entire A-list
drove them, too) sat in the driveway, covered by a tarp, since they
rode bicycles 99 percent of the time. She threw down the book she
was cradling in her mittened hands (Batik Technique) and ran to
meet the car before I'd even put it in park.
"Bettina!" she called, yanking open the driver's-side door and
clasping her hands together excitedly. She grabbed my arm and
pulled me out into an immediate hug, and I wondered if anyone
besides my mother or my dog would ever be so happy to see me.
We stood there for a moment longer than was necessary and I immediately
forgot how much I'd dreaded this visit.
"Hi, Mom. You look great." And she did. We had the same
long, unmanageably thick hair, but hers had turned a beautiful
shade of gray, and it literally shimmered as it hung down her back,
parted straight down the middle as it had been since she was a
teenager. She was tall and delicately thin, the type of woman
whose determined expression is the only clue that she's not quite
as fragile as she appears. As usual, she wore no makeup, only a
turquoise sun pendant on a whispery silver chain. "This is my
friend, Sammy. Sammy, my mother."
"Hello, Mrs. Robinson." He paused. "Wow, that sounds weird,
doesn't it? Although I suppose you're used to it."

"I sure am. 'Jesus loves me more than you will know.' Either
way, please just call me Anne."
"It's really nice of you to invite me over, Anne. I hope I'm not
intruding."
"Nonsense, Sammy. You both made our whole night. Now
come inside before you freeze."
We followed her through the simple pine doorway after pulling
a sneezing Millington from her Sherpa Bag and walked back to the
small greenhouse they'd installed a few years earlier "for contemplating
nature when the weather wasn't cooperating." It was the
only modern feature of the whole rustic house, and I loved it. Totally
out of place with the rest of the log-cabin theme, the greenhouse
had a minimalist Zen feel, like something you'd discover
tucked away in the spa of the latest Schrager hotel. It was all
sharp-angled glass with leafy red maple around the perimeter and
every imaginable species of plant, shrub, flower, or bush that could
conceivably thrive in such an atmosphere. There was a pond,
slightly larger than a golf-course sand trap, with a smattering of
floating lily pads and a few teak chaise longues off to the side for
relaxing. It opened out into a huge, treed-in backyard. My father
was correcting papers at a low wooden table lit by a hanging Chinese
paper lantern, looking reasonably well put together in a pair
of jeans and Naot sandals with fuzzy socks ("No need to buy those
German Birkenstocks when Israelis make them just as well," he
liked to say). His hair had grayed a bit, but he jumped up as spryly
as ever and enveloped me in a bear hug.
"Bettina, Bettina, you return to the nest," he sang, pulling me
into a little jig. I stepped aside, embarrassed, and kissed him
quickly on the cheek.
"Hi, Dad. I want you to meet my friend, Sammy. Sammy, this is
my dad."
I prayed my dad would be normal. You could never tell exactly
what he'd say or do, especially for a private laugh from me. The
first time my parents came to the city after I'd graduated from college,
I brought Penelope out to dinner with us. She'd met them at
graduation and once before—she probably barely remembered a

thing about them—but my dad didn't forget much. He'd kissed her
hand gallantly after I reintroduced them and said, "Penelope, dear,
of course I remember. We all went out for dinner, and you brought
that sweet boy. What was his name? Adam? Andrew? I remember
him being very bright and very articulate," he deadpanned without
a hint of discernible sarcasm.
This was my father's subtle way of inside-joking with just me.
Avery had been so stoned at dinner that he'd had trouble responding
to simple questions about his major or hometown. Even
though he hadn't seen Avery or Penelope in years, my father
would still occasionally call me and pretend to be Avery's fictional
dealer, asking me in a faux-baritone voice if I'd like to purchase a
pound of "some really good shit." We thought it was hysterical,
and he clearly couldn't resist taking a quick shot now and then.
Penelope, being accustomed to clueless and absentee parents, had
not detected a thing and simply smiled nicely. My dad knew nothing
of Sammy, so I figured we were safe.
"Pleasure, Sammy. Come sit and keep an old man company.
You from around here?"
We all sat. My father poured the Yogi Egyptian licorice tea that
my mother brewed by the bucket as Sammy carefully arranged his
large frame on one of the oversized beaded floor cushions scattered
around the table. I flopped between him and my mother,
who folded her legs Indian-style so gracefully that she appeared to
be twenty years younger.
"So what's the plan for the weekend?" I asked cheerily.
"Well, no one will be coming until late tomorrow afternoon, so
you're free until then. Why don't you guys see what's going on at
the university? I'm sure there's a good program or two," my mother
said.
"The campus ballet troupe is performing an early Thanksgiving
matinee tomorrow. I could arrange for tickets if you're interested,"
Dad offered. He had taught ecology at Vassar for so long and was
such a beloved professor on campus that he could arrange just
about anything. My mother worked for the campus health clinic's
emotional health department, dividing her time equally between

hotline work (rape crisis, suicide, general depression) and rallying
the university to adopt a more holistic approach to students' problems
(acupuncture, herbs, yoga). They were the pet couple of Vassar,
just as I knew they'd been the pet couple at Berkeley for so
many years in the sixties.
"Maybe I'll check it out, but you're forgetting that Sammy is
here to visit his family," I said, giving them both what I hoped
were warning looks to lay off. I spooned some of the unprocessed
brown sugar and passed the dish to Sammy.
"Speaking of which, what was Will's excuse again for not being
able to make it?" my mother asked nonchalantly.
Sammy stepped up before I could intervene, not realizing that
my parents had long been onto Will's pitiful stories and lies, that it
had become a favorite family pastime to tell and retell the new and
creative fibs he crafted. He and my mother were close, despite the
small detail that she was an annoying hippie liberal who refused to
affiliate with a political party and he was an annoying conservative
Republican who defined himself by one. Somehow they talked
weekly and even managed to be affectionate when together, although
each loved viciously mocking the other to me.
Sammy spoke up. "Wasn't it something about Simon's work?"
he said to me. "The Philharmonic called Simon at the very last
minute to fill in for an ill musician. They gave him no choice,
really. He just couldn't say no," he blurted out before I could screw
it up. He was loyal, I had to give him that.
My mother smiled first at me and then at my father. "Is that so?
I thought he said something about an emergency meeting with his
entertainment lawyer at their offices in New Jersey."
Sammy flushed, immediately convinced he'd somehow gotten
the story confused. Time to intervene.
"They know Simon's not filling in for anybody, Sammy, and
they know you know it, too. Don't worry, you didn't give anything
away."
"That was sweet of you, Sammy, but I simply know my dear
brother too well to believe the stories anymore. Where are they off
to? Miami? The Bahamas?"

"Key West," I said, topping off everyone's mugs.
"You win," my father conceded. "Your mother bet me he'd cancel
at the last minute and blame it on Simon. Frankly, I'm delighted
he finally moved past that tired old deadline excuse." They both
cracked up.
"Well, I'd better get dinner going," my mother announced. "I
went to the farmers' market today and got all their winter specials."
"May I help you?" Sammy asked. "It's the least I can do after
lying to you. Besides, it's been a while since I've been in a home
kitchen—I'd really appreciate it."
My parents peered at him curiously.
"Sammy's a chef," I said. "He studied at the Culinary Institute of
America and is planning to open his own restaurant someday."
"Really! How interesting. Do you currently cook anywhere in
the city?" my father asked.
Sammy smiled shyly, looked down, and said, "Actually, I
started doing Sunday brunch at Gramercy Tavern a few months
ago. It's a serious crowd. It's been a really good experience."
I felt a jolt go through me. Who was this guy?
"Well, in that case, come with me. Can you do anything interesting
with zucchini?" my mother asked, linking her arm with his
once he hoisted himself up from the floor cushions.
Within minutes Sammy was at the stove, while my mother sat
quietly at the table, staring at him in wonderment, unable to disguise
her delight.
"What are you making?" I asked as he drained a pot of noodles
before adding a splash of olive oil. He wiped his hands on the
apron my mother had provided (which read IN ACCEPTANCE, THERE IS
PEACE) and surveyed his progress. .
"Well, I thought we'd start with a pasta salad with roasted carrots,
cucumbers, and pine nuts, and maybe some zucchini antipasto.
Your mom said she wanted something casual for the entree, so I
was thinking of trying curried chickpea sandwiches on focaccia and
a side of stuffed red peppers with rice and escarole. How does
everyone feel about baked apples with freshly whipped cream and
this sorbet here for dessert? I have to say, Mrs. Robinson, you
picked some fantastic ingredients."

"Gee, Mom, what were you planning on making?" I asked, loving
the expressions on both their faces.
"Casserole," she said, never taking her eyes off Sammy. "Just
throw it all together and bake it for a few minutes, I guess."
"Well, that sounds great, too," Sammy was quick to say. "I'd be
happy to do that if you'd prefer."
"No!" my father and I shouted simultaneously. "Please continue,
Sammy. This is going to be a real treat for us," Dad said,
slapping him on the back and taking a taste of the chickpea mixture
with his fingers.
Dinner was amazing, of course, so good I didn't make a single
nasty comment about the lack of meat or the abundance of organic
food, but that was mostly because I didn't even notice. All my concerns
about the potential awkwardness of Sammy sharing the table
with my parents had evaporated by the time we finished our pasta
salad. Sammy glowed from the constant praise everyone lavished
on him, and he became chatty and happy in a way I'd never seen.
Before I knew what had happened, I was clearing the table alone
and my parents had sequestered Sammy back in the greenhouse
and were showing him the much-dreaded naked-in-the-bathtub
baby pictures and all the things I'd supposedly accomplished in my
life that no one besides the people who'd given birth to you could
conceivably care about. It was almost midnight when my parents
finally announced they were going to bed.
"You two are more than welcome to stay and visit, but your father
and I need to get to sleep," my mother announced, while
stamping out the last stub of her clove cigarette, a treat they shared
when they were in a festive mood. "Big day tomorrow." She extended
her hand to my father, which he took with a smile. "So nice
to meet you, Sammy. We just love meeting Belle's friends."
Sammy leapt to his feet. "Nice to meet you both as well.
Thanks for having me. And good luck with the party tomorrow. It
sounds great."
"Yes, well, it's a tradition, and we hope to see you there.
Nighty-night," my father said cheerily, following my mother into
the house, but not before he leaned in and whispered a fervent
thank-you to Sammy for allowing him one edible meal.

"They're great," Sammy said quietly when the door had closed.
"After the way you described them, I was honestly expecting circus
freaks. But they couldn't be more normal."
"Yeah, well, it depends on your definition of normal, I guess.
You ready?"
"Uh, sure. If you are." He sounded hesitant.
"Well, I figured you'd want to get home, but I'm totally up for
hanging out if you are," I said, holding my breath the entire time.
He appeared to think about this for a minute and then said,
"How do you feel about hitting the Starlight?"
It was official: he was perfect.
I exhaled. "Great call. It's only the best diner on earth. Do you
love it as much as I do?"
"More. I used to go there by myself in high school, if you can
even believe how humiliating that is. I'd just sit there with a book
or a magazine and a cup of coffee. It broke my heart when the
original wart lady left."
The Starlight had been the epicenter of our high school social
life, the place I'd spent the better part of my teenage years, hanging
out with my friends who, like me, weren't quite pretty or cool
enough to be considered popular, but who could still confidently
claim superiority over the dorks and losers (mostly the horrifyingly
antisocial math and computer types) who unwillingly occupied the
rungs beneath us. The social hierarchy was strictly maintained: the
cool kids monopolized the smoking section, the severely socially
challenged played video games at the two booths all the way in the
back, and my crowd (assorted hippies, alternative punk kids, and
the socially striving who hadn't quite made the big leagues yet)
held the half-dozen tables and the entire counter space in between.
The guys would sit in one booth, smoking and discussing—quite
suavely, and with the strong suggestion of expertise—whether
they'd sacrifice blow jobs or sex if forced to decide at gunpoint, as
we, their loyal girlfriends (who weren't doing much more than kissing
any of them), gulped coffee and analyzed in great detail which
of the girls at school had the best clothes, chest, and boyfriend.
Starlight was the Poughkeepsie version of Central Perk, only slightly

stickier and with fluorescent lights, brown vinyl booths, and a waitstaff
where each employee, incredibly, possessed either a sprouting
facial wart or a missing finger. I loved the way some people remain
devoted to their childhood bedrooms or summer-vacation spots,
and I returned, like a homing pigeon, every time I went back to
town. The idea of Sammy there alone made me sad and nostalgic.
We settled into the least sticky booth we could find and pretended
to examine the plastic menus, which hadn't changed in
decades. Even though I was stuffed, I debated between cinnamon
toast and fries and then decided that carb-loading was acceptable
outside the Manhattan city limits and got both. Sammy ordered a
cup of regular coffee. One of my favorite waitresses, the woman
with the longest hair of all growing from the wart near her lip, had
snorted when he'd asked for skim milk instead of cream, and the
two were now involved in some sort of glaring contest across the
room.
We sipped coffee and chatted and picked at the food.
"You never mentioned you were doing brunch at Gramercy
Tavern. I'd love to come by."
"Yeah, well, you never mentioned that you were salutatorian of
your class. Or that you won the Martin Luther King Award for
cross-cultural community service."
I laughed. "Boy, they didn't miss a thing, did they? I thought it
was lucky you graduated three years before me so you wouldn't
remember any of that stuff, but I should've known better."
The waitress refilled Sammy's mug and let a little of the coffee
splash for good measure.
"They're proud of you, Bette. I think that's so nice."
"They were proud of me. It's different now. I don't think my
newfound ability to draw celebs to Bungalow 8 and get written
about in gossip columns was exactly what they had in mind for me."
He smiled sadly. "Everyone makes compromises, you know?
Doesn't mean you're any different from the person you were back
then."
The way he said it made me want to believe it. "Can we get
out of here?" I asked, motioning for the check, which, regardless of

how many people were in the party or what was ordered, always
amounted to exactly three dollars per person. "I think I need to
conserve my energy for tomorrow's festivities, which I'm hoping to
convince you to attend. . . ."
He left a twenty-dollar bill on the table ("To make up for all the
nights I left really shitty tips after sitting here for hours") and put
his hand on my back to direct me out. We detoured long enough
for him to win me a small stuffed pig from the claw game in the
foyer—the one that sat just past the rotating pie display. I hugged
it to me and he told me it was the best two bucks in quarters he'd
ever spent. The ten-mile drive to his house was quiet, and I realized
that in all the years I lived in Poughkeepsie, I'd never been to
this part of town. We were both contemplative, with none of the
chitchat or joking or confiding that we'd shared during the past
nine hours we'd spent together—nine hours that felt like five minutes.
I pulled into the short, unpaved driveway of a small, tidy
Colonial-style home and put the car in park.
"I had a great time tonight. Today, tonight, the whole thing.
Thanks for the ride and for dinner—all of it." He didn't look like
he was in any rush to get out of the car, and I finally allowed myself
to entertain the idea that he might just kiss me. Any Harlequin
novel would've surely pointed out how the electricity crackled between
us.
"Are you serious? I should be thanking you! You're the one
who kept us from enduring an entire night of vicious food poisoning,
you know," I blurted out. Then I tucked my hands underneath
my knees to keep them from shaking.
And then he was climbing out. Just like that. He simply opened
the door and grabbed his duffel from the backseat and waved,
mumbling something about calling me tomorrow. The disappointment
stung like a slap to the face, and I put the car in reverse as
quickly as possible, needing to leave before I started crying. Why
on earth would you think he's even remotely interested in you? I
asked myself, going back over the night in my head. He needed a
tide and you offered him one and he was nothing except perfectly
friendly. It's your own delusion and you need to get over it imme-

diately before you make a complete ass of yourself. As I turned
to back out of the gravelly driveway, I saw a figure approaching
the car.
He was talking, but I couldn't hear him through the closed
window. I rolled it down and hit the brakes.
"Did you forget something?" I asked, trying to keep my voice
from quivering.
"Yes."
"Well, hold on a sec. There, the back door's open, so—"
I didn't get to finish. He reached in through the driver's-side
window and across my lap and I was briefly frightened until he
grabbed the gearshift and put the car in park. He then unbuckled
my seat belt, yanked open the door, and pulled me from the car.
"What? I don't know—"
But he silenced me by taking my face in his hands in exactly
the way that every girl wants and no guy ever does. Just like on
the cover of Lustfully Yours, if I was recalling it correctly, the picture
that had symbolized for me the ultimate in romantic makeouts.
His hands were cool and strong and I was convinced he
could feel my face burning, but there was no time to worry about
it. He leaned in and kissed me with such softness that I could
barely respond, had no choice but to stand there and let it happen,
too shocked to even kiss him back.
"I promise I won't forget that next time," he said with what I
swear was the kind of gruffness you'd only ever hear in a movie.
He gallantly held my door open for me and motioned that I was to
sit down again. Happy I needn't rely on my own legs for support
anymore, I collapsed clumsily into the seat and grinned as he shut
the door and walked off toward the house.

20
I had just finished stringing the last succotash-shaped paper
lantern when my mother finally caved and asked me about
Sammy.
"Bettina, honey, Sammy seems like a lovely boy. Your father
and I enjoyed meeting him last night."
"Yeah, he does seem nice." I was going to make her work for
this one and enjoy every second of it.
"Will he be joining us for the party?" She placed a hummus
platter next to a tray of mixed olives and stood back to admire her
work before turning her attention to me.
"I don't think so. I know he'd like to, but we're both only here
for the weekend, and I think he needs to spend some time with his
dad. He mentioned they might go out for steaks or something."
"Mmm, is that so?" she asked in a tight voice, visibly trying not
to comment on what she was surely envisioning to be a frenzied
orgy of meat-eating. Sammy had only said that they'd go out for
Thanksgiving dinner, but it was too easy and too much fun to drive
her crazy. "Maybe he'd like to stop by afterward and sample some
of our finest local produce?"
"Yes, well, I'll definitely pass along that sexy invitation." I was
upset when Sammy had called to say he couldn't make the party,
and even more so when he mentioned that he wouldn't be riding
back to the city with me. After thanking me quite politely for the
ride the day before, he explained that he had to work Saturday
night and would be taking the bus back. I thought about leaving
early, too, but knew my parents would be upset, so I just wished
him a good night and hung up.

"Hey, Bettina, come and help me with this, will you?" My father
was lovingly arranging a pile of sticks and firewood in a complicated
woven pattern. The piece de resistance of every Harvest Festival
was the ceremonial bonfire, around which everyone would
gather to dance, drink wine, and "serenade the harvest," whatever
that meant.
I bounded over, feeling especially unfettered in a pair of wornout
cords from high school, a zip-up wool sweater, and a thickly
piled fleece pullover. It felt weird and wonderful, a relief from the
flimsy little tank tops and the skintight, ass-lifting, thigh-binding,
must-have jeans I now wore religiously. My feet were swathed in
fuzzy angora socks and tucked into a pair of mushy-soft Minnetonka
moccasins. Rubber-soled. Beaded. With fringe. They'd
been a horrifying fashion abomination in high school, but I'd worn
them nonetheless. It felt slightly impure to wear them again now
that they were splashed all over the pages of Lucky, but they were
too comfortable to reject on principle. I took a deep breath of the
late November air and felt something strangely akin to happiness.
"Hey, Dad, what can I do?"
"Grab that pile by the greenhouse and drag it over here, if you
can," he grunted while heaving a particularly huge log over his
shoulder.
He tossed me a pair of oversized work gloves—the kind that
had long ago turned black from so much dirt—and waved in the
general direction of the wood. I pulled on the gloves and relocated
the firewood from one area to another, one log at a time.
My mother announced that she was going to shower but had
left a pot of Yogi Egyptian licorice tea in the kitchen. We sat and
poured and drank.
"So tell me, Bettina. What is your relationship with that
fine young fellow from last night?" Dad asked, trying to sound
casual.
"Fine young fellow?" I said, more to buy time than to poke fun.
I knew they both desperately wanted to hear that Sammy and I
were dating—and God knows no one wanted that to be true more
than me—but I couldn't bring myself to explain the entire situation.

"Well, of course you know your mother and I dream of you
ending up with someone like Penelope's fellow. What's his name?"
"Avery."
"Right. Avery. I mean, it would be delightful to have a neverending
supply of really good grass, but barring a dreamboat like
him, this Sammy fellow seems all right." He grinned at his own
joke.
"Yeah, well, nothing too exciting to report. I just sort of gave
him a ride up here, you know?" I didn't want to get into it—it felt
like I was a little old to be telling my parents about something that
currently qualified as little more than a crush.
He sipped his tea and peered at me over the top of his Veterans
for Peace mug. Neither of my parents was a veteran of anything,
as far as I knew, but I didn't say anything. "Okay. Well then.
How's the new job going?"
I'd managed not to think about work for a full twenty-four
hours, but I suddenly felt a frantic need to check my messages.
Luckily, there was no cell reception at my parents' house, and I
didn't bother to call my number from their land line.
"It's actually pretty good," I said quickly. "Much better than I
expected. I like my coworkers for the most part. The parties are
still fun, although I can see how that can get old really fast. I'm
meeting a ton of new people. Overall, it seems like a good plan for
right now."
He nodded once, as though processing, but 1 could tell he
wanted to say something.
"What?" I asked.
"No, nothing. It's all just very interesting."
"What's so interesting about it? It's just events PR. It's not what
I'd call fascinating."
"Well, of course, that's precisely what I mean. Don't take this
the wrong way, Bettina, but we—your mother and I, that is—are
just somewhat surprised that you chose this route."
"Well, it's not UBS! I almost gave Mom a heart attack when she
found out that one of their clients was Dow Chemical. She wrote
me letters every day for three weeks accusing me of supporting

deforestation, lung cancer in children, and somehow—although
I'm still not clear how—the war in Iraq. Don't you remember? She
was so panicked, I finally had to get excused from that account.
How can you be upset that I have a new job?"
"It's not that we're upset, Bettina, it's just that we'd thought you
were ready to do something, something . . . meaningful. Maybe
grant-writing. You've always been a wonderful writer. Weren't you
talking about Planned Parenthood there for a while? What happened
with that?"
"I mentioned a lot of things, Dad. But this came along, and I'm
enjoying it. Is that so bad?" I knew I sounded defensive, but I
hated this conversation.
He smiled and placed his hand over mine on the table. "Of
course it's not so bad. We know you'll find your way eventually."
"Find my way? How condescending is that? There's nothing
wrong with what I'm doing—"
"Bettina? Robert? Where are you? The girls from the food co-op
just called, and they're on their way. Is the bonfire all set?" My
mother's voice reverberated through the wooden house and we
looked at each other and then stood.
"Coming, honey," my father called.
I placed both our mugs in the sink and brushed past my father
as I ran upstairs to exchange one pair of baggy pants for another.
By the time I'd run a brush through my hair and rubbed some
Vaseline on my lips (the very same lips that Sammy had kissed a
mere twenty hours earlier), I could hear voices in the backyard.
Within the hour the house was packed with people I didn't
know. Aside from a handful of neighbors and university people
whom I'd known for years, there were large groups of strangers
milling about, sipping hot cider and sampling the baba ghanoush.
"Hey, Mom, who are these people?" I asked, sidling up to her
in the kitchen as she mixed more lemonade. The sun had just
set—or rather, the sky had darkened, since there hadn't really been
any sun that day—and some sort of klezmer band had begun to
play. A man wearing sandals similar to my father's whooped happily
and began hopping in a way that could just as easily have in-

dicated a ruptured hernia as the desire to dance. Not your typical
Thanksgiving dinner.
"Well, let's see. Lots of new people this year. We've had more
time to socialize since your father's only teaching one class this semester.
The group sitting at the table is from our food co-op—did
you know we switched to a new one a couple months ago? Ours
was getting so fascist! Oh, and those two lovely couples we know
from the Saturday green market over on Euclid Street. Let's see.
There are some folks we met during the weeklong silent vigil to
abolish the death penalty last month, and a few from our committee
on building sustainable ecovillages. . . ."
She continued chatting as she filled the ice trays and stacked
them neatly in the freezer. I leaned against the counter and wondered
when, exactly, I'd lost touch with my parents' lives.
"Come, I want to introduce you to Eileen. She works at the crisis
hotline with me and has been a savior this year. She knows all
about you, and I'm dying for you two to meet."
We didn't have to search for long because Eileen appeared in
the kitchen before we could balance the pitchers on trays to carry
them out back.
"Oh, my, this must be Bettina!" she breathed, rushing toward
me, her fleshy arms jiggling. She was pleasantly fat, her overall
roundness and huge smile giving her a trustworthy appearance.
Before I could even think about moving, she had gathered me up
like an infant.
"Oh! I'm so glad we finally met. Your mother's told me so
much about you—I've even read some of the fantastic letters you
wrote in high school!" At this point I shot my mother a death look,
but she just shrugged.
"Really? Well, that was a while ago. Of course, I've heard such
good things about you, too," I lied. I'd only first learned the
woman's name thirty seconds ago, but my mom seemed pleased.
"Humph! Is that so? Well, come here. Sit right down next to
Auntie Eileen and tell me what it's like to be so famous!"
The "Auntie Eileen" bit was a tad much, considering she
looked to be a mere decade older than me, but I played along and
planted myself at the kitchen table. "Famous? Not me. I sort of

work with famous people—I'm in public relations—but I certainly
wouldn't describe myself that way," I said slowly, now convinced
that Eileen had me confused with someone else's daughter.
"Girlfriend, I may live in Poughkeepsie, but no one reads more
tabs than me! Now don't you hold back for a single second. What's
it like to go out with that god Philip Weston?" Here she took a
sharp intake of breath and feigned fainting. "Come now, don't
leave out a single detail. He's the most gorgeous man on the
planet!"
I laughed uncomfortably, running escape routes through my
head, but I didn't get really upset until I saw my mother's face.
"Pardon?" she asked. "Philip who?"
Eileen turned to her in disbelief and said, "Anne, just try and
tell me you don't know that your flesh and blood is dating the
world's most desirable man. Just try I" she screeched. "The only
reason I didn't ask you about it directly was because I knew I'd be
meeting Bettina tonight, and I wanted to relish every juicy detail
directly from the horse's mouth!"
My mother couldn't have looked more surprised if I'd hit her,
and I gathered in those short few seconds that my parents, thankfully,
hadn't read the latest installments by Abby.
"I, uh, I wasn't aware you had a boyfriend," she stammered,
most likely feeling doubly betrayed—not only had her daughter
omitted some crucial information, but this lapse in the motherdaughter
relationship was now on display for her coworker. I
wanted to hug my mom and pull her away and try to explain
everything, but Eileen kept hammering me with questions.
"Does he have an explanation for why he and Gwynnie broke
up? That's what I've always really wondered. Oh, and has he ever
personally met the Queen of England? I imagine so, what with his
family being royalty and all, but I wonder what that must be like?"
"Royalty?" my mother whispered, holding on to the counter for
support. She looked like she wanted to ask a million questions, but
all she managed was, "What about the boy from last night?"
"He was here?" Eileen instantly demanded. "Philip Weston was
here? In Poughkeepsie? Last night? Ohmigod . . ."
"No, Philip Weston was not here. I gave a friend a ride home,

and he stopped in to meet Mom and Dad. I'm not technically dating
Philip. We've just gone out a couple of times. He's friendly with
everyone I work with."
"Oooooh," Eileen breathed. This was clearly a good enough
explanation. My mother didn't look quite as thrilled.
"You've gone out a few times with whom? Weston something
or other? Do you mean, as in the famous English Westons?"
I was a little bit proud that even my mother had heard of him.
"The one and only," I said, glad that things were finally smoothing
over.
"Bettina, you are aware that the Westons are notorious anti-
Semites? Do you not remember that situation with the Swiss bank
accounts from the Holocaust? And as if that isn't bad enough,
they're reputed to employ South American sweatshops in a couple
of their business ventures. And you're dating one of them?"
Eileen quickly noticed that the conversation had begun to
nosedive and quietly slipped out.
"I'm not dating him," I insisted, although the denial sounded
ludicrous in light of the fact that I'd just admitted to going out
with him.
She peered at me as though seeing my face for the first time in
months and shook her head slowly. "I never expected this from
you, Bettina, I really didn't."
"Expected what?"
"I never thought that a daughter of mine would associate with
these types of people. We want you to be everything you are—
smart and ambitious and successful—but we also tried to instill in
you some level of social and civil consciousness. Where did it go,
Bettina? Tell me, where did it go?"
Before I could answer, a man I'd never seen before rushed into
the kitchen to announce that my mother was needed outside to
take a picture for the local paper. For die last five years my parents
had been using their annual party as a fund-raiser for battered
women's shelters in the area, and it had become such a Poughkeepsie
institution that both the local and school newspapers covered
it. I watched as the photographer posed my parents, first in

the greenhouse and then by the bonfire, and I spent the rest of the
night getting to know as many of their friends and coworkers as I
could. Neither my mom nor my dad mentioned my job or Philip
Weston again, but the weird feeling lingered. Suddenly, I couldn't
wait to get back to the city.