“I didn’t actually surf much when I was up at Berkeley. No time. But I do miss the Sydney beaches, and the North Shore.”

“Oahu?”

“Yeah, we have a house there.”

“I remember your mom telling me. How often do you get back there?”

“These days about once a year if I’m lucky.”

“So why’d you move to New York in the first place? Surely you could have worked somewhere with better beaches.”

“I’ve always wanted to work with this firm. They’re committed to creating consciously designed, affordable, sustainable spaces for working-class communities. I know that’s something you might not understand.”

Lucie frowned. “Why would you say that? Because you think I only work with rich people?”

George gave a half smirk. “You said it, not me.”

“Look, many of my clients may be wealthy, but artists need to make a living. Most of the work I do is to connect collectors to young emerging artists who need all the support they can get. Especially female artists and minority artists—I’m on their side, I do everything I can to help boost their careers. I try to get their work placed with the most worthy, thoughtful collectors I know, so that hopefully their art will get the sort of notice it deserves.”

“Sorry if I misunderstood. Freddie might have given me the wrong impression at lunch the other day,” George offered contritely.

“Well, Freddie does a great job trivializing what I do. He’s such an armchair socialist. It’ll be interesting to see what he ends up doing with his life.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he benefits from all sorts of privileges I’ll never have.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s a man, for starters, and his genetic lottery numbers came in the day he was born. With his floppy Keanu Reeves hair and my dad’s features, most people don’t even realize he’s got a drop of Chinese blood in him. He’s grown up with all the privileges of being a male Churchill. This entire town caters to men like him. He’s a legacy at Princeton and he’s a shoo-in for any of the private men’s clubs he wants to join.”

“Are there still private clubs in New York that don’t allow women in?”

“You better believe it! You know, there’s an old exclusive men’s club that was finally forced to let women in. Do you know what they did? They sneakily changed the menu so that the dishes that appealed to women would be awful. They made all the salads, the fish, the chicken—all lighter fare—purposely disgusting, hoping it would turn off the ladies and discourage them from joining. They kept the steaks and the burgers good, for the guys.”

“Ha! That’s evil. Still, Freddie’s a good bloke. If he’s a member of all these old stuffy clubs, I think he’ll be a great advocate for change.”

“Of course he will. I adore my brother, but still, it’s not easy being related to that charmer. You know what happened once? We were in our elevator, coming home from the gym. I was in my workout clothes, holding a big paper sack with takeout. Some lady got into the elevator with us, obviously a visitor, and she smiled at me and asked, ‘Do you get good tips?’”

George stared blankly at Lucie. “What did she mean?”

“Well, I had no clue either, but when Freddie started laughing hysterically, I finally figured it out. The lady thought I was delivering food. Like I was some Chinese delivery girl. That’s always the story with me, but no one would ever mistake Freddie for the help.”

George shook his head, appalled. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. “Hey, do you know any artists who might want to create a big outdoor mural? We’re redoing this children’s park up in the Bronx, and I think it could use a mural that maybe starts on a wall but extends along the ground and onto the skate ramp. We don’t have a huge budget, but I think it could be good exposure for the artist.”

“Are you kidding? I know about a hundred artists who would leap at the opportunity,” Lucie said excitedly.

“All right then. I’ll have my people call your people.”

They both stared out at the ocean for a few moments, until Lucie decided to speak up again. “I think it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry if I seemed a little prickly earlier … it’s just that Ditch Plains is a pretty special place to me. My father used to take me out here all the time when I was little. He was friends with the owner of East Deck Motel, this wonderful old place that used to be across from the parking lot, and so he’d bring me out here to this beach all the time. It’s where he taught me how to swim in the ocean …”

“I’m sorry if I insulted your beach. My pa taught me how to swim in the ocean too, at Coogee.”

Lucie took a deep breath and ventured to say something that had been on her mind all week. “You know, when you were in my art studio, you said something about a painting that really struck me.”

“The white one?”

“Yes, the white painting. Looking at it afterward gave me a vivid flashback to how my father had died. He had a heart attack at home, right in front of me, and I guess it was something I had completely erased from my memory until the other day.”

George stared deeply into her eyes. “How old were you?”

“Eight.”

“My father died when I was sixteen. He’d been ill a long time, but it was still terrible to see him fading away at the end. It took me years to get over it, not that one really gets over it. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you at that age.”

“I completely blocked it out. I mean, I knew he’d had a heart attack, but until the other day I hadn’t realized I was actually there.”

George pondered her words and then looked her in the face. “Gosh, and then what happened on the piazzetta in Capri. No wonder you had to run …”

Lucie closed her eyes for a moment, saying nothing. They sat quietly like this for a few minutes, and as Lucie looked out at the undulating waves of the ocean, slate gray against the stark blue sky, she casually remarked, “This isn’t quite the view from Casa Malaparte, but I’ve always loved it. It’s where I learned to surf.”

George turned to Lucie in surprise. “Wait a minute, you surf?”

“Of course I do.”

“Really? Why haven’t I ever seen you surfing out here?”

Lucie looked up at George. “Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t waste my time. It’s flatter than the duck pond in Central Park. You’d have to be Malibu Barbie to catch waves out here.”

George let out a laugh.

“Speaking of which …,” Lucie said, as she tilted her head toward a statuesque blond girl paddling back to the shore.

The girl emerged from the water as if she were doing her best imitation of a James Bond girl and sauntered up to them with her surfboard just as George got up, planted a quick kiss on her cheek, and handed her his towel.

“Lucie, this is Viv.”

“Hi,” Lucie greeted her in surprise, staring at the intricate dragon tattoo on her arm.

“Hallo,” Viv said in a gravelly Swedish accent.

“How do you know each other?” Lucie inquired.