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divorce, however, and Harry had been generous in the settlement. In addition to giving her the apartment, he’d agreed to provide liberal child support and cover many of Reva’s other expenses. The private school was free, of course, because Libby worked there, so he was spared the staggering cost of Hudson’s tuition, but he paid for pretty much everything else Reva needed.
    Maybe Libby could have Reva ask him for the money…. No, she wasn’t going to put her daughter in the middle of this. She didn’t even want Reva to know there was a chance they might have to move, at least not unless a move became unavoidable.
    “Would you like me to ask him for you?” Vivienne offered.
    “No. If I have to go to him, I’ll do it myself.”
    “My parents might be able to help you out,” Vivienne said. “Not that they’ve got a lot of spare cash lying around, but they’d do anything for you. I’d contribute, but Leonard and I are still newlyweds. We’re still trying to figure out how to handle a joint checking account.”
    “I hate this, Viv. I hate having to beg people for money.”
    “To finance an apartment like this in Manhattan, you’ve got to beg,” Vivienne said before taking a decisive bite out of her bagel. “Get used to it. You want to keep your house? You beg.”
    If anyone else had spoken to her that way, so officious and blunt, Libby would have erupted in anger. But when Vivienne issued her opinions in her slightly nasal New York accent, with bits of cream cheese edging her teeth like the grouting between the tiles in her bathroom, Libby could only laugh. She didn’t have much to laugh about—a weekend that would be spent listening to a CD of a five-year-old girl singing Puccini, fretting about her apartment situation andbickering with Reva over nonsense—but laughing beat any of the alternatives she could come up with.
    Laugh today, beg tomorrow, she thought. Or beg Monday. She could visit a bank. She could inquire about borrowing against her retirement account at Hudson. Maybe she could find a kindhearted loan shark down in Times Square.
    Anything would be better than having to ask Harry for money.

Three
    W hat Ned knew about private schools he could fit on the point of a penny nail. What he felt about private schools could cover a two-by-four, but those feelings were based mostly on Hollywood movies featuring arrogant preppies in crested blue blazers and gray pants and speaking with snooty British accents. He’d become acquainted with a few prep-school alums in college, and they hadn’t been anything like the Hollywood stereotype. They’d been presumptuous, though, astonished that not all teenagers received a new car for graduation and allowances large enough to cover spring-break jaunts to the Bahamas.
    All right, so he was a little biased. If private school was Eric’s dream, Ned would bulldoze whatever obstacles stood in the way of that dream.
    He stood on the corner of West End Avenue and 78th, watching youngsters—none of them wearing uniforms—stream down the sidewalk and sort themselves into the three adjacent brownstones that all appeared to be part of the Hudson School. He wasn’t sure which building he should enter, but the brownstone on the left seemed to be attracting most of the smaller children. That must be the lower school, the one Eric had applied to.
    That Eric had sent in the application without even telling Ned still shook him. The kid had asked some questions about private school a couple of weeks ago, but Ned hadn’t realized he was actually thinking of applying. That he’d gone ahead and done it—helping himself to Ned’s Visa card—had left Ned uneasy and awash in guilt. Had moving to Manhattan been a mistake? Ned asked himself again. Had he destroyed his son’s educational opportunities?
    He and Eric had made the decision together to move to Manhattan, he reminded himself. They’d agreed that they had to leave Vermont, and he’d sent feelers out to various