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Barrie was caught off guard. Was she being challenged? What do you know about losing a child? What do you really know about anything?

“Are you referring to…? Do you mean the baby’s… I mean, Robert’s death?”

“Yes. What do you know about it?”

“Nobody really knows about SIDS, do they?” Barrie asked, groping for th

e meaning behind the question.

Obviously changing her mind about the cigarette, Mrs. Merritt tore open the pack. Her motions were like those of a marionette, jerky and disjointed. The fingers that held the cigarette to her lips were trembling. Barrie quickly fished a lighter from her satchel. Vanessa Merritt didn’t continue speaking until she’d deeply inhaled several times. The tobacco didn’t calm her. Instead, she became increasingly agitated.

“Robert was sleeping, on his side, with one of those little pillows propping him up, the way I’d been shown to position him. It happened so fast! How could…” Her voice cracked.

“Are you blaming yourself? Listen.” Barrie reached across the table, took the cigarette from Mrs. Merritt, and ground it out in the ashtray. Then she pressed the woman’s cold hands between hers. The impulsive gesture was noticed by the men at the other table.

“Robert died of crib death. Losing a baby to SIDS happens to thousands of mothers and fathers every year, and there’s not a single one of them who doesn’t second-guess their parenting skills. It’s human nature to assign blame to a tragedy, so people lay a guilt trip on themselves. Don’t fall into that trap. If you start thinking you were responsible for your baby’s death, you might never recover.”

Mrs. Merritt was vigorously shaking her head. “You don’t understand. It was my fault.” Behind her sunglasses, her eyes darted about. She withdrew her hands from Barrie’s, moved them from cheek to tabletop, to lap, to spoon, to neck, in a restless search for peace. “The last few months of my pregnancy were intolerable.”

For several moments she covered her mouth with her hand, as though the last trimester had been unspeakably painful. “Then Robert was born. But instead of getting better, as I’d hoped, it only got worse. I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t what? Cope? All new mothers experience postpartum and feel overwhelmed,” Barrie assured her.

She kneaded her forehead with her fingertips. “You don’t understand,” she repeated in a strained whisper. “Nobody does. There’s no one I can tell. Not even my father. Oh, God, I don’t know what to do!”

Her emotional unraveling was so obvious that the men at the next table had turned to stare. The waiter approached, looking anxious.

Barrie spoke quickly beneath her breath. “Vanessa, please, get a grip. Everybody’s watching.”

Whether it was because Barrie had addressed her by her first name or for some other reason, the emotional collapse immediately reversed itself. Her nervously active hands fell still. Her tears dried instantly. She downed the cold cappuccino she had claimed moments earlier not to want, then finished by daintily blotting her colorless lips with her napkin. Barrie watched the transformation with amazement.

Wholly restored, in a cool, composed voice, she said, “This conversation was strictly off the record, right?”

“Absolutely,” Barrie replied. “You made that understood when you called me.”

“Considering your position, and mine, I see now that it was a mistake to arrange this meeting. I haven’t been myself since Robert died. I thought I needed to talk about it, but I was wrong. Talking about it only makes me more distraught.”

“You’ve lost your baby. You’re entitled to unravel.” Barrie laid her hand on the other woman’s arm. “Be kinder to yourself. SIDS just happens.”

She removed her sunglasses and looked directly into Barrie’s eyes. “Does it?”

Then Vanessa Armbruster Merritt, First Lady of the United States, replaced the Ray Bans, slipped the strap of her handbag onto her shoulder, and stood up. The Secret Service agents at the next table came hastily to their feet. They were joined by three others, who’d been standing post along the iron railing, out of sight.

As a group they closed ranks around the First Lady and escorted her from the terrace of the restaurant to a waiting limousine.

Chapter Two

Barrie dug into her satchel in search of coins for the cold drink machine. “Anybody got a couple of quarters I can borrow?”

“Not for you, sweetcheeks,” replied a videotape editor who was walking past. “You’ve already stiffed me seventy-five cents.”

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow. Swear.”

“Forget it, sugarbuns.”

“You ever heard of sexual harassment in the workplace?” she called after him.

“Sure. I voted for it,” he retorted over his shoulder.