Things no longer cost what they had when she was young, which was the last time she had taken much notice. She had never paid for anything when living with Joseph. Though not extravagant, considering her age and her class and her economic reality, she had been careless: literally without care. And because she wanted only what was reasonable for someone in her position, there had always been enough to buy what she wanted. Now there was no reason. Or rhyme. Or money.

"You take care of it, dear," she said to Annie.

For many years, for her entire professional life, Miranda had delegated the payment of her bills to her business manager. But now, with the coming of the scandals and their aftermath, the business manager had noticed that there was no money to pay him to pay her bills. He had gently informed Miranda of this fact and gone on his way to pay the bills of more solvent clients. Unfortunately, the bills did not leave with him. Miranda gave up her office, but even then the bills did not stop appearing, following her to her home. Finally, Miranda brought this dogged, insistent pile of bills, this reminder of her failure, these dunning, demeaning messages from a life she had lost, to her mother's apartment on Central Park West. She exiled the depressing long white envelopes, unopened, to Betty's little antique desk in the living room, and there they sat, until Annie could stand it no longer and went through them herself.

It was Annie, then, who worried about money. But Annie was far better at worrying in general, and worrying about money was one of her specialties. She did not resent her mother and sister for dumping their financial load on her back. In fact, she felt better when she was organizing them than when she was taking care of her own insistently precarious business, for her finances, always a juggling act, the nonprofit world seeming to take its mandate seriously and to apply it rigorously to its employees, were now more than ever the stuff of nightmares.