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complex character. Susie was clever, but not as clever as Amanda. In college, Susie would entrance men with a light, quick remark, but it was Amanda who followed up with the strong argument. The only time they had a falling-out—a prolonged falling-out—was after Amanda met Bob. Supporting actresses are not supposed to get the man; certainly not before the star herself. Much, much later, Amanda would ask Bob why he had been attracted to her and not to Susie. “That’s easy,” he had answered. “Susie’s the sort of girl you look at but not the sort you get involved with.”
    “Why not?”
    Bob shrugged. “She’s work. You can tell just by looking at her.”
    “Some men might think her worth it,” Amanda persisted, concealing the pleasure she took in his answer. “She’s very beautiful.”
    “Yes, she is. But it’s fashion-model beauty. It’s not the kind of beauty that you actually want to touch.”
    Amanda’s unwelcome romantic subplot caused Susie to pull away, and for the next few years Amanda encountered her friend more often in gossip columns than in person. After Susie graduated, she landed a summer internship at the Negro Progress Fund, a stodgy but respected civil rights organization. Between photocopying and fetching coffee, Susie sold an article to
Harper’s
titled “Growing Up Black and White.” The article was illustrated by a grainy but heart-stopping photograph of Susie, in a daringly unbuttoned Oxford shirt, brooding over her struggle to find a racial identity. The article—or rather, the photograph—caused a flutter in the national media. Susie was made communications director of the fund by its president, who declared Susie “the face of the next generation.” Suddenly Susie was receiving more requests for media interviews than her boss, an elderly giant of the rights movement who had once marched with Martin Luther King Jr. And once the cameras caught sight of Susie, they would not let her go. A network hired her away from the nonprofit world to give broader commentaries on politics. Somehow she pulled this off: Susie’s secret weapon—to the surprise of men who unwisely condescended to her—was the quick comeback, and her beauty and poise distracted even critical viewers from listening too carefully to what she had to say.
    Pretty soon Susie was being groomed to be a daytime anchor, and then a host of her own show. But Susie—as Amanda knew well—was not gifted at asking questions of other people; too often, she talked over them, answering her own question, leaving her guest mute and irritated. The television critics made fun of her and the show was canceled after one season. Six months later a glossy magazine published an especially mean-spirited article—“Whatever Happened to Susie Morris?” Susie took her revenge by dating rich and prominent men. Amanda eagerly followed these boldfaced romances—until they sputtered out. There was a dot-com tycoon, then a senator well known for his womanizing, followed by a network executive and a mining heir (who later turned out to be of ambiguous sexuality).
    Amanda accepted the loss of Susie’s friendship—she could not envision even a bit part for herself in Susie’s now star-studded life—but it was Susie who eventually circled back, like a seagull seeking respite on an old, familiar pier. By then Amanda had given birth to Sophie and the old dynamic could reassert itself: in Susie’s eyes, Amanda was once again playing the unthreatening number two to her commanding lead.
    That was fine—Susie’s life was nothing if not diverting—but on this afternoon, Amanda’s patience was wearing thin. Susie showed no inclination to leave. She had removed her sunglasses and closed her eyes, tilting back her face to absorb a radiant shaft of sunlight filtering through the trees. Lit this way, against the humble backdrop of Amanda’s backyard, Susie resembled a golden messenger dropped to earth by the gods.
    “Mommy?” Ben emerged from