The View From Penthouse B - By Elinor Lipman Page 0,16

of the breathless stories. I sipped my beer straight from the bottle and said, “Maybe I should know more. I’m the one who accepts Charles’s calls from the pokey. Maybe I’ve been a little too nice.”

“There’s more.” Anthony took back possession of his keyboard and typed something into a search box.

A timeline and birth certificate were before me, and a photo of the son, probably in third or fourth grade—assuredly a school photo, its background a web of blue and pink laser beams.

This is the world now. This is how Anthony, within minutes, found a son spawned by Charles: He went on Facebook and “friended” him.

Notice

A YOUNG WOMAN WITH short, cowlicked blond hair and dark roots was asleep on our living-room couch, lavender spaghetti straps visible above an heirloom granny afghan we considered too dowdy to display. I might have yelped, but there was something about the way her shoes—red ballerina flats—were neatly, almost mathematically, lined up at the approximate spot where her feet would land upon rising that seemed trustworthy. Should I wake her? Or wake Margot or Anthony to fill in the blanks? It was not yet seven a.m., so I decided to grind some coffee beans and let that racket serve as the alarm clock. First, though, I tiptoed closer to the sleeping intruder for clues, at which point I solved the mystery myself. Next to her, having floated to the floor, was a Post-it note in a familiar hand. It said, “Meet Olivia, my sister. Will explain. xo A.”

I felt that the calm and mature thing to do was not to wake anyone but to carry on. I retreated to the kitchen and poured myself juice. Yesterday’s Daily News was on the island, open to a photograph meant for critical analysis: a shot of Mrs. Bernie Madoff furiously exiting a Burger Heaven on Lexington, take-out bag in hand. The headline, circled, read GOTTA BEEF, RUTHIE? Margot, who’d added devil’s horns to Ruthie’s baseball cap, would be blogging about that culinary comedown later, I was sure.

And then, in the doorway, taller than she’d looked horizontally, taller than her brother, was our unexpected guest, red plaid boxer shorts below a lavender camisole, pink-encased smartphone in one hand. She introduced herself: Olivia Sarno, sister of Anthony. I said, “I know. Your brother left a note on you. I’m Gwen.”

She asked what time it was. I pointed to the digital clock on the microwave—7:05—which caused Olivia to mumble, “Oh, shit.”

“Too early?” I asked. “Or too late?”

“Late. But, you know—so what? I gave my notice yesterday.” Then, with a grin and a slide onto the nearest kitchen stool, she said, “Fuck ’em, don’t you think? How about a little comp time for once?” She pulled the newspaper closer, pointed, and said, “Oh, right. Anthony told me that one of you lost all of your money to this Madoff guy.”

“Margot. Still asleep. And you’re the au pair sister?”

“Not for long,” she said. “Two more weeks.”

I asked if she’d like coffee, which made her jump off the stool and say, “I’ll get it! Here? Filters are where?”

I said, “Sit down. You’re a guest.” I pointed to the cell phone in her hand. “Do you want to call your employer and tell her you’ll be late?”

“Tell him. She’s out the door already. Her hours are insane.”

She volunteered that the baby’s mother took a mere two weeks off for maternity leave. “Noel was the one who took family leave, six weeks. Until I got hired,” she said.

“Noel is the husband?”

“Noel . . . would be the husband.”

From what he liked to call his “wing,” from the chin-up bar he’d installed over the pantry door, Anthony called, “That’s right. The husband. And paramour.”

Ten athletic grunts later, he was in the kitchen, barefoot and wearing only sweatpants. He crossed to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out butter and a carton of eggs. Olivia and I watched him crack too many eggs into a bowl and beat them rather mercilessly. “Hers,” he finally stated, pointing. “My sister’s paramour.”

The eggs met the melted butter with a sizzle. “Want me to tell Gwen what’s going on, or would you prefer your own spin?” he asked.

Olivia said, “Go ahead, Anthony. Knock yourself out.” She asked me which bathroom she should use and could she borrow a towel. I led her toward mine, and when I returned to the kitchen, I said, “She seems pretty much . . . together.”

“You are correct,” said Anthony. “Oh, is she ever together. I see