Deni leaned back with a sigh. We sat in the breakfast nook, the large, rambling kitchen with its blood-red Italian tile and shiny stainless steel and rich, buttery slabs of butcher's block to the left, the vast green of Central Park a couple of blocks away spied through the large windows to the right. And somewhere nearby, the sounds of her maids, one carefully unwrapping yet another delivery of new clothes -- Chanel this time, I believe --, the second just as carefully hanging the stratospherically expensive garments on racks and cataloging them before wheeling them into one of Deni's many walk-in closets. My omelet sat on the plate in front of me, ignored. I did drink the mimosa, though. My second. "Jacob's traveling?" I asked, well aware her husband of fifteen years was rarely, if ever, in New York. I wasn't sure how this marriage worked. But somehow it did. Or at least seemed to. Although we were close, Deni and I, it wasn't something we discussed. "LA," she said, spooning homemade ketchup onto her plate.
