One Fifth Avenue

Annalisa laughed. “Paul, you have to help me. They’re your friends.”

“Partners,” Paul corrected. “Anyway, what difference does it make? You’ll be the best-looking woman there.”

“It’s the Hamptons. They probably have a dress code.”

“Why don’t you call Sandy’s wife, Connie?”

“I don’t know her,” Annalisa said.

“Sure you do. She’s Sandy’s wife.”

“Oh, Paul,” she said. It just doesn’t work that way, she thought, but refrained from explaining. Paul wouldn’t understand.

Paul leaned across the bed to kiss her goodbye. “Are you looking at apartments today?” he asked.

“I’m always looking at apartments. You’d think that with fifteen million dollars to spend, it would be easy.”

“If it’s not enough, spend more,” Paul said.

“I love you,” she called after him.

That morning, Annalisa had considered asking Emme, the real estate agent, what one wore in the Hamptons, but judging from Emme’s appearance, Annalisa didn’t think she’d like the answer. Emme was at least sixty years old but had a face that sported the latest in plastic surgery techniques. All morning, Emme’s overarched eyebrows, plastic lips, and large white teeth kept distracting Annalisa, as did Emme’s hair, which was coarse and dark at the roots and frayed blond on the ends. Emme was considered the best real estate agent on the Upper East Side. “I know you’ve got plenty of money,” Emme said, “but money isn’t the issue. Everyone’s got plenty of money these days. It’s who you know that counts.” Then she’d asked, “Who do you know?”

“How about the president of the United States?” Annalisa said, twisting her ponytail.

“Will he write you a letter?” Emme asked, not catching the sarcasm.

“Probably not,” Annalisa said. “Considering I called his administration an embarrassment.”

“Everybody says that,” Emme said.

“Yes, but I said it on TV. I used to be a regular on Washington Morning.”

“That’s not a good answer,” Emme said.

“How about Sandy Brewer?” Annalisa finally ventured.

“Who’s he?” Emme asked.

“My husband works with him.”

“But who is he?” Emme said.

“He runs a fund,” Annalisa said cautiously, as Paul had told her repeatedly that she wasn’t to talk about what he did or how he made his money. It was a secret community, he said, like Skull and Bones at Yale.

“So he’s a hedge-fund manager,” Emme guessed correctly. “Nobody knows who they are or wants to know them. Nobody wants them as a member of their club.” She looked Annalisa up and down. “And it isn’t just about your husband. It’s about you, too. You have to be approved by the board.”

“I’m a lawyer,” Annalisa said. “I can’t see anyone objecting to that.”

“What kind of lawyer?” Emme asked.

“Class-action lawsuits. Among other things.”

“I could see a lot of people objecting to you,” Emme said. “Isn’t that really a glorified kind of ambulance chasing?” She shook her head. “We’d better concentrate on brownstones. If you buy a brownstone, you won’t have to worry about getting approved by a board.”

The morning of the day Annalisa and Paul were going to the Hamptons, Emme had shown her three town houses. One was a mess, smelling of milk and dirty diapers, with toys strewn everywhere. In the second town house, a woman of about thirty followed them around, holding a slippery two-year-old boy in her arms. “It’s a fantastic house,” the woman had said.

“Why are you moving?” Annalisa had asked.