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“Frida, take a look around and see if anything’s been taken,” Barbara instructed.

Frida walked into the living room.

“Oh, no!” Frida shouted, causing Barbara to run in with icing on her lips.

“What?”

“Ellie’s prized vase from Tuscany. It’s moved! It’s on Ellie’s good chair! Maybe she tried to use it to fend off the intruder. You know, when I came down here before, what if they had Ellie tied up in the bedroom?”

“Or maybe Mom moved it to clean it.” Barbara balked at Frida’s theory. Then, “My grandmother’s pearls!” Barbara suddenly remembered and rushed into her mother’s room.

Frida moved over to Ellie’s baby grand piano. The piano was rarely played, but Frida always admired it just the same. On top of the piano sat dozens of photos in silver frames. It was her best friend’s life laid out for everyone to see. In one, a young Ellie was at the beach with chubby Barbara. Barbara hadn’t changed much, Frida noted, and Ellie had always had the best figure. And there was Ellie, holding baby Lucy, with the most joyous smile on her face; Frida and Ellie laughing at Frida’s fiftieth birthday party; Howard dressed in one of his suits, God rest his soul.

Frida started to get weepy. What would she do if something had happened to her friend?

“Barbara,” Frida called out.

“It doesn’t seem like anything has been taken here,” Barbara called back. “There are those jeans here from that time you all went to the dude ranch.”

Barbara entered the living room with the empty Plage Tahiti bag and pulled out the receipt. “Looks like the imposter must have done a little shopping on Mother’s card,” she said, then noticed Frida’s worried face. “What’s the matter?” Barbara asked.

“Barbara, we have to find Ellie.” Frida was starting to get upset.

“We will,” Barbara said, permitting herself to be slightly comforting.

“Your mother is the only person in the world who cares about me. Next to my children, she’s the most important person in my life.”

Although it was completely out of character, Barbara put her arm around Frida.

“There, there
, Frida. We’ll find Mom. Don’t you worry.”

“I am very worried.” Frida dug inside her sweatshirt arm cuff, took out a ragged tissue, blew her nose with it, and then tucked it back where it came from.

“Frida,” Barbara said with a little more intensity. She put her hands on Frida’s shoulders. “Frida, we will find Mom. I promise you we will find my mother today, but you’ve got to be strong. Can you be strong?”

“Can I be strong?”

“You can be strong.”

“Okay, Barbara.”

“Now, the first thing we’re going to do is head over to the Swiss Pastry Shop. Maybe they can give us some clues. Then we’ll go over to the Plage Tahiti clothing shop and find out who used Mom’s credit card and what they bought.”

“I think we have a pretty good idea who used this credit card,” Frida said and nodded.

“Maybe she’ll head back there. Maybe what she bought was too big or too small.”

“Good thinking,” Frida agreed. “Only . . .”

“What is it?”

“Well, I’m feeling a little ravenous right now . . .”

“Oh, Frida, how could you think of food at a time like this?”

“Well, my blood sugar gets low and—”

“I did notice you wrapped up your steak last night.”

“I was so full from the wonderful salad and crab cakes,” Frida lied.

“Fine. I’ll call over to Lucy’s boyfriend’s restaurant. He’ll wrap something up for us on our way to the Swiss Pastry Shop. That’s actually a good idea—maybe he knows where my daughter is. I’ll try Lucy’s phone again and tell her we’re headed over there.”

Barbara went to her bag, got out her phone, and dialed Lucy. Again.

“Hi, Lucy, it’s Mom. I haven’t heard from you today and, like I said, Aunt Frida is very worried about Grandma. When you get a chance, please call us back. Also, we’re headed over to your friend Johnny’s restaurant for some takeout. Love, Mom.”

“That’s a good idea,” Frida said.

“Though I really do think we should retrace the steps first,” Barbara said. “Johnny probably hasn’t seen Lucy today. She’s always on the move, and of course she hasn’t called me back. Maybe Mom has something in the kitchen we could snack on until then.”

Frida walked over to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There was a broiled chicken inside. Ellie always made wonderful chicken; she was always able to make it so moist on the inside and crisp on the outside. All Frida could ever do was burn things. Ellie. How could Frida be eating anything at a time like this? She suddenly became upset again and shut the refrigerator door.

“No, Barbara, let’s go find Ellie.”

“But what about your blood sugar?”

“Forget my blood sugar.”

“Well, okay,” Barbara said. “Maybe Mom has some cheese and crackers I can grab. She always has a stash.”

“Good thinking.”

Frida walked over to the Paris mirror to fix her hair. What did Barbara know about style, always in her black outfits? The pink sweat suit was cute. And it was comfortable.

“Barbara, are you ready?” Frida called.

“I’m ready.” Barbara’s answer sounded garbled. “Here are the cheese and crackers.” She handed a pack to Frida and put the rest in her handbag.

“Barbara?”

“What is it? Let’s go!” Barbara rushed her.

“Nothing, it’s just . . . I thought you threw out the cakes.”

“I did. Come on, let’s go.”

“Oh. It’s just that you have some icing on your lip.”

“It’s flour from the pantry. You know Mom is a slob! It must have gotten on my face when I opened the door,” Barbara blustered as she wiped away the buttercream.

Don’t get Barbara mad. Don’t get on Barbara’s bad side.

Sometimes, though, it was fun to rile her up just a little.

“Okay,” Barbara said, grabbing the keys to the apartment. “Let’s go.”

They walked out of the apartment and into the hallway. Barbara shut the door and made sure the safety lock was on by jostling the door. Then she locked the three locks on the door and jostled it again for a few more seconds to make sure
it was locked. She turned around and saw Frida looking at her sheepishly.

“What is it now, Frida?” Barbara moaned.

“Maybe I should use Ellie’s powder room before we leave. What if we’re never near a clean bathroom?”

Barbara grunted in disgust as she looked through her vast Louis Vuitton bag for the keys she’d just thrown in. “I can’t find the keys. I’m too agitated. You find them.” She threw the bag at Frida.

Frida looked into the bag and found the keys immediately.

“Do you have to go, too?” Frida asked.

“I never have to pee,” Barbara protested. “I’ve got the bladder of a camel.”

Frida unlocked the door to the apartment, placed her one pack of cheese and crackers and Barbara’s purse on the table in front of the Paris mirror, and headed into Ellie’s powder room. As she sat, she wondered when or if she would be sitting at all for a while.

“Frida!” Barbara called out.

This startled Frida. She finished peeing and flushed. As quickly as she could, she pulled up her control-top panty hose and then her sweatpants.
Never keep Barbara waiting.

“Frida, the elevator is here!”

“I’m coming!” she shouted as she hurried out of the bathroom and through the apartment.

“Frida, let’s go!”

“I’m here!” Frida shouted as she slammed the door.

It was then that she remembered.

She started at Barbara, who was standing with one foot in
the elevator and one foot in the hall. The door was about to close on her body so she pushed it to make it open again.

“Please don’t tell me that you left my bag in Mother’s apartment.”

Fear paralyzed Frida. Again.

“Frida, please tell me you at least have Mother’s keys in your hand.”

Frida suddenly remembered the cheese and crackers. They were in the house. With Barbara’s bag. Her blood sugar dropped another level.

“Jesus, Frida! What the hell is the matter with you? You are so stupid sometimes!”

Twenty floors below, Ken the doorman was standing outside the lobby elevator loading Mrs. Kristiansen’s groceries when he heard the howl of Barbara Sustamorn’s voice echo down the elevator shaft and through the lobby.

“What was that?” a startled Mrs. Kristiansen asked as she widened her eyes and stiffened.

Ken shrugged. “Mrs. Jerome’s daughter Barbara is up there.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Kristiansen nodded, getting the picture. “Well, thank goodness she only visits. Could you imagine if that woman lived here?”

“There’s a silver lining to everything, isn’t there?” He chuckled.

“You said it.” Mrs. Kristiansen agreed, handing Ken a five-dollar tip.

business before pleasure

Lucy and I skipped like schoolgirls down Chestnut Street. She didn’t want to, but it was my day so I made her. I swear I could hear Gershwin’s “Bronco Busters” or the melodic sound of a full orchestra playing “’S Wonderful” inside my head. Whenever I hear Gershwin in my head it means I’m having a good time. (By the way, if you’re too young to be familiar with Gershwin, please get yourself some CDs. You’ll thank me later.)

“So what should we wear for our dates tonight?” I asked Lucy, throwing her arm up and down along with mine in excitement.

“We’ll pick you out one of my dresses.”

“I want that black one—you know, the one with the sexy back.”

“Gram, we’re not going any place fancy, just a bar and to grab something to eat.”

“Well, I don’t care,” I said as we headed up the stairs to Lucy’s studio. “A handsome boy wants to take me out for a night on the town; the least I can do is look nice for him. What am I going to do, show up looking like some schlump? And then what?”

“You don’t want him to think it’s your first date, though. If you wear that dress it looks like you’re expecting him to take you someplace more extravagant than where he’s really taking you, which is a bar and an Italian place where you bring your own wine.”

“Lucy, the job for the man is to show the lady a nice time. The job for the woman is to look like she appreciates it.”

“Well, let’s just hope he doesn’t appreciate you to the point where he wants more in return,” Lucy warned me.

“A little peck on the cheek never hurt anyone,” I replied, though I knew exactly what she meant.

Lucy stopped me in front of her door. “Please don’t leave my side all night, Gram. Men today are different than they were when you were younger.”

“And whose fault is that?” I asked her.

“It’s no one’s fault. If a woman feels like having a one-night stand, she should be able to, as long as she has no regrets afterward. Men, though . . . Well, sometimes men think they’re getting away with something.”

“Are you speaking from experience, or is this something every woman your age knows?”

She stopped and looked at me. “Both.”

I kept my mouth shut. This was something I didn’t need to know about. The truth is, in my entire adult life, I was considered single for maybe a month before I met Howard.

“You don’t think this Zach person will take advantage of me, do you?” I asked as she opened the door to her studio.

“Oh god no,” she balked. “He’s one of the nicest guys I know, next to Johnny. He’s that guy who is too nice to women. A lot
of women don’t know how to handle it. A lot of them just use him.” She laughed. “Maybe he’s the one I should be warning.” She paused. “Anyway, forget about that now. For right now, I need to pick out the dresses to bring to Barneys.”

“Definitely the blue one,” I said, pointing to an azure cocktail dress.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” Lucy wondered.

“Not at all.”

“Here, try it on for me. Let me see if there’s anything else I need to do with it. You should be the sample size.”

I climbed demurely out of my dress.

“And after Barneys, we’re picking up the underwear and bra,” Lucy added. “Actually, here”—she reached under her dress and moved around, pulling her bra out of her sleeve—“put this on. We’re about the same size.”

I took Lucy’s bra in my hand and turned around to put it on.

“It’s like two coffee filters.” I laughed.

“You’d be surprised. It gives a lot of support.”

I slipped into the blue dress and stood on Lucy’s tailoring box in front of the mirror. No matter how many times I looked at myself in the mirror that day I would never get over how I looked.

“I’m bringing it.” Lucy smiled, standing back. “And you’re going to be my model.”

“Me?” I replied, shocked.

“You look amazing in that. You’ll look amazing in everything. With your hair and makeup already done, why not?” She stood back and looked me over like an artist studying her canvas. “All I need to do is take in a little here,” she said out loud to herself as
she pinched the fabric by my waist and began to pin the dress. “This should take two seconds to sew, and then we’ll get to the other ones. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. You’re a perfect fit, Gram!”

I started to tear up again.

“If you keep crying like this you’ll never enjoy the day,” she joked.

“I don’t think I want this day to end,” I said and smiled at her.

“Me, either.” She smiled back.

It was only a few blocks from Lucy’s studio to the Barneys buyer so it was easiest for us to just put the dresses on a wheeled rack. I walked in the front and steered and pulled while Lucy took the back and pushed. We were having a heck of a time with the thing, and more than once we lost control of the rack as we went from one block to the next. I had read an editorial in the
Philadelphia Inquirer
about the fact that the handicapped ramps on the streets were dilapidated and crumbly. Now I saw that they were even worse than the article said. I’d also heard Mrs. Goldfarb complain about negotiating the sidewalks while pushing her husband in his wheelchair. Since we’d had rain a couple of days before, water had collected in the potholes, and I had to lift up all the dresses so they wouldn’t get splashed.

As we approached our destination, Lucy stopped me.

“Now Gram, let me do all the talking.”