Over the next few days, while his mother remained in the hospital, Billy began smoking again to ease his stress. When he smoked, he had the same conversation with himself: No matter what he did, he was ruined. If he didn’t sell the cross — out of misguided morality — his mother would suffer needlessly and probably die. If he did sell the cross, he would suffer his conscience. Even if he didn’t get caught, he would feel like a criminal among the rarefied set in which he moved. He reminded himself that his kind of morality was old-fashioned, though. Nobody cared anymore.

On the third day, a nurse walked by. “Merry Christmas,” she said.

“Merry Christmas,” he replied, remembering that it was Christmas morning. He ground out his cigarette with the tip of his Prada loafer. He would sell the cross. He didn’t have a choice. And if he could find the right private buyer, he just might get away with it.

Mindy loved the holidays in New York City. Every year, she put up a tree purchased from the deli around the corner — everything was so convenient in Manhattan! — bought four new ornaments at the local gift shop, wrapped the base of the tree in an old white sheet, and set up a crèche nestled into the folds. There sat Mary and Joseph, five sheep, the baby Jesus in the manger, the three wise men, and right above the scene, on the lowest branch of the tree, the carefully hung Star of David. And every year, James looked at the crèche and shook his head.

Then there were the traditional family outings. They had to go skating at the Wollman rink (“I’m going to hug you, Sammy,” Mindy said, chasing after him on her skates and embarrassing the hell out of him while James clung to the boards on the side) and to The Nutcracker at the New York City Ballet. Sam had been trying to get out of the performance for the past three years, claiming he was too old, but Mindy wouldn’t hear of it. When the tree grew onstage and the scenery changed to a fantasy woodland glade complete with snow, she even cried. Sam slunk down in his seat, but there was nothing he could do about it. After the performance, they went to Shun Lee West, where Mindy insisted on behaving like a tourist by admir-ing the sixty-foot-long gold papier-mâché dragon that had been transported to Manhattan in pieces in the late seventies. She ordered a dish called “Ants Climb on Tree,” which was only beef with broccoli. But — she reminded James and Sam — she couldn’t resist the name.

This year was like every other year, with one small difference: Sam had a secret.

Through a chance remark by Roberto, the doorman, Mindy discovered that Sam had gone up to the Rices’ apartment just before Christmas to help Annalisa with her computer. Normally, Sam discussed such incidents with her, but Christmas came and went without a peep from Sam. This was odd, and Mindy discussed it with James. “Why would he lie?” she asked.

“He hasn’t lied. He’s omitted to tell you. There’s a difference,” James said.

During the meal at Shun Lee West, Mindy decided the omission had gone on long enough. “Sam?” she said. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Sam looked briefly alarmed. He immediately guessed what Mindy was getting at, and cursed himself for not having told Roberto to keep it to himself. Everyone in One Fifth was so damn nosy. Why couldn’t they all mind their own business? “Nope,” Sam said, stuffing his mouth with a shrimp dumpling.

“Roberto said you went up to the Rices’ apartment before Christmas.”

“Oh, that,” Sam said. “Yeah. That lady, what’s-her-name, couldn’t turn on her computer.”

“Please don’t call women ‘that lady,’ ” Mindy said. “Always call women ‘women.’ ”

“Okay,” Sam said. “That woman was having trouble with her Internet connection.”

Mindy ignored the sarcasm. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Sam said. “I swear.”

“I want to hear all about it,” Mindy said. “If there’s anything new or different in that apartment, I need to know.”

“There’s nothing different.” Sam shrugged. “It’s just an apartment.”

Sam hadn’t told Mindy about his visit for one simple reason: He still hadn’t learned how to lie effectively to his mother. Eventually, she would get it out of him that Annalisa Rice had given him the keys, and then Mindy would insist he turn the keys over to her, and she would sneak into the apartment.

That was exactly what happened. “Sam?” Mindy said slyly when they were back home. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing,” Sam said.

“Why are you acting so strangely?” Mindy said. “You saw something.

And Annalisa Rice told you not to tell me. What is it?”

“Nothing. She just gave me her keys, is all,” he blurted out.

“Give them to me,” Mindy demanded.

“No,” Sam said. “She gave the keys to me, not you. If she’d wanted you to have the keys, she would have given them to you.”

Mindy put the issue aside until the next morning, when she started in on him again. “As the head of the board, it’s my duty to make sure there isn’t anything untoward going on in that apartment.”

“Untoward?” James said, looking up from his cereal. “The only untoward element in this building is you.”

“Besides, they have a housekeeper. She’s probably in the apartment,”

Sam said.

“She’s away. Went back to Ireland for the holidays,” Mindy said.

“Roberto told me.”

“It’s a good thing Roberto doesn’t work for national security,” James remarked.

“Are you going to help me, James?” Mindy said.

“No, I’m not. I refuse to engage in illegal activities. Sam,” James said,

“give your mother the keys. There won’t be any peace in this house until you do.”

Sam reluctantly turned over the keys. At which point Mindy immediately boarded the elevator for the penthouse apartment.

Riding up, she recalled with a pang of envy how she’d never been one of the anointed few who’d been invited to Mrs. Houghton’s apartment for tea, or even to her annual Christmas party. Despite Mindy’s position in the building, Mrs. Houghton had largely ignored her — although, to be fair, when the Gooches moved in, Mrs. Houghton was nearly ninety and mostly housebound. But every now and then, she would descend from above like an angel (or perhaps like one of the Greek goddesses) to walk amongst regular humans. She would ride down in the elevator in her sable wrap, diamonds and pearls slung around her neck — it being rumored that she always wore real jewelry, so confident was she in her fame and reputation as to never worry about being mugged — standing erect on her rickety old legs like a determined general. The nurse or housekeeper would call down ahead to alert the doormen that Her Majesty was “coming down,” and when the elevator doors opened in the lobby, Mrs.

Houghton would be greeted by at least two doormen, a handyman, and the super. “Can I help you, Mrs. Houghton?” the super would ask, offering his arm to walk her out to her ancient Cadillac limousine. On the occasions of Mrs. Houghton’s coming down, Mindy would do her best to be in the vicinity, and even though she refused on principle to bow or scrape to anyone, she found herself doing just that with Mrs. Houghton.

“Mrs. Houghton?” she’d say meekly, shrinking her shoulders into a sort of bow. “I’m Mindy Gooch. I live here? I’m on the board?” And even though Mindy could tell Mrs. Houghton had no idea who she was, she never let on. “Yes, dear!” she’d exclaim, as if Mindy were a long-lost relative. She’d touch Mindy on the wrist. “How are you?” But the brief exchange never evolved into a conversation. And before Mindy could think of what to say next, Mrs. Houghton had moved on to one of the doormen.

And now, instead of the gracious Mrs. Houghton in the building, they had the despicable Paul Rice. Mindy had admitted him to the building; therefore, she reasoned, she had every right to sneak into his apartment.

Paul Rice was probably engaging in illegal and nefarious activities. It was her duty to protect the other residents.

She had a hard time with the keys, which were electronic, in itself a possible violation of a building rule. When the door finally opened, she nearly fell into the foyer. Mindy wasn’t into art (“You can’t be into everything in this city, otherwise you have no time for accomplishments” was something she’d written recently in her blog), and so she barely noticed the lesbian photograph. In the living room, sparsely furnished, either on purpose or because they were still decorating, a freestanding mobile with papier-mâché renderings of cars blocked the view of the fireplace. Kids’ stuff, Mindy thought with disdain, and went into the kitchen. Here again she was disappointed. It was just another high-end kitchen with marble countertops and restaurant-quality appliances. She peeked into the maid’s room. Another bland pro-forma room with a single bed and a flat-screen TV. The bed had a profusion of pillows and a down comforter, and lifting up the corner, Mindy saw the sheets were from Pratesi. This was slightly irritating. These people really know how to waste money, she thought. She and James had had the same sheets for ten years, purchased on discount at Bloomingdale’s. Mindy went upstairs. She passed two bedrooms — empty — and a bathroom. She continued down the hall and went into Annalisa’s office. On top of a bookcase were several framed photographs, possibly the only personal items in the apartment.

There was a large, schmaltzy photograph of Annalisa and Paul on their wedding day. Paul was wearing a tux and was leaner than he was now.

Annalisa wore a small beaded tiara from which extended a lace veil.