One Fifth Avenue

Connie was sitting with three other women in a grouping of wide brown wicker couches. One of the women was surreptitiously smoking a cigarette; the others were talking about a shop in East Hampton. Connie looked up on their approach and patted the place next to her. “There’s room here,” she said to Annalisa, and indicated the woman who was smoking. “This is Beth. She went to Harvard as well. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Harvard Law,” Beth said, quickly stubbing out her cigarette. “What about you?” she asked Annalisa.

“Georgetown,” Annalisa said.

“You still working?” Beth asked.

“No. I just quit.”

“Beth quit her job years ago,” Connie jumped in. “And you haven’t looked back.”

“I don’t have time to work,” Beth said. “When you’re married to one of these guys”—she indicated the men—“it’s a full-time job.”

“Oh, but it’s the kids, really,” Connie said. “You don’t want to miss a minute.”

At nine o’clock, they were ushered i

n to dinner. They were served by a young man and woman dressed in black—college students earning extra money on their summer break. Annalisa was seated between Billy Litchfield and Sandy Brewer, occupying the place of honor next to the host. “Have you ever been to the Andes?” Sandy asked her. Beth, seated across from her, jumped in, prompting a lively discussion with Sandy about how the Andes were the “new” New Zealand. The conversation turned to the Bilbao art fair, a charity event to which Sandy had pledged a million dollars, and the best wine auction in the world. After dinner, there was an endless game of pool in a paneled library. Sandy and the other men smoked cigars. They were tipsy on fine wine and champagne, and during a match between Billy and Paul, Billy’s voice carried across the room. “You’ll make a ton of money,” Billy was saying, “bags and bags, more than you could ever imagine—and it won’t make a bit of difference. Because you’ll be working as hard as you were before, maybe harder, and you won’t be able to stop, and one day you’ll look up and realize the only thing that’s changed in your life is your location. And you’ll wonder why the hell you spent your whole life doing it…”

All conversation went dead. Into the silence, like the bell in a lighthouse, came the voice of Connie Brewer: “Well,” she said breathlessly, “you know what they say. It’s all about location. Location, location, location.”

The guests breathed a sigh of relief. The time was noted and exclaimed upon: It was two A.M. Everyone went upstairs to bed.

“What do you think got into that guy?” Paul said, taking off his pants.

“Billy Litchfield?” Annalisa asked. “Probably too much alcohol.” The air conditioner was turned up high, and she snuggled under the down comforter. “Anyway, I like him.”

“That’s good,” Paul said, getting into bed.

“Do you think they liked us?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know. The women are so different.”

“They seemed nice enough.”

“Oh, they’re perfectly nice,” Annalisa said.

“What’s wrong?” Paul said, yawning loudly. “You sound insecure. That’s not like you.”

“I’m not insecure,” she said. “Just curious.” After a moment, she said, “What if Billy Litchfield is right, Paul? About the money thing?”

But Paul was asleep.

The next morning at breakfast, Annalisa learned that they were expected to play tennis in a small tournament with some of the guests from the night before. Paul, who was not athletic, was eliminated in the first match against Sandy. Annalisa sat in the bleachers, watching. She’d been a high school champion. Her competitive nature rose to the fore. I’m going to win this, she thought.

The tournament went on for five hours. The sun came out and the temperature rose. Annalisa won four matches in a row and was faced with Sandy in the final. As she stood on the baseline, bouncing the ball, she assessed her opponent. His playing style indicated that he’d had a lot of lessons, and his aggression made up for his lack of skill. But he didn’t have a natural ability for tennis. She could win if she kept him off balance.

You might be rich, but I can still beat you, she thought, tossing the ball into the air. She brought her racket up behind her and, just before the moment of contact, flicked her wrist so the ball sliced across the net and bounced right on the sideline.

“Ace!” Billy Litchfield shouted.

Thirty minutes later, it was over. As they clustered around her, congratulating her, Annalisa thought, You can do this. You can really do this. You can succeed here as well.

“Good job,” Paul said. He hugged her distractedly, with one eye on Sandy.

They all headed back to the house.