"Wow-that must have been amazing."

"It was a lot of fun," she says, nodding, "but you can't really do it when you have a child-it's a full-time life, parties, trips, a lot of shmoozing, a lot of late nights-"

A woman in dark Jackie O sunglasses accidentally bumps our table as she passes, causing the china saucers to teeter precariously on the marble.

"Binky?" Mrs. X asks, reaching up to touch the woman's arm as I steady the cups.

"Oh, my God. Hi, I didn't even see you there," the woman says, lowering her dark glasses. Her eyes are swollen and damp from crying. "I'm sorry I couldn't come to Grayer's birthday party. Consuela said it was fabulous."

"I've been meaning to call," Mrs. X says. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not unless you know a hit man." She pulls a handkerchief out of her Tod's purse and blows her nose. "That lawyer Gina Zuckerman recommended couldn't help at all. It turns out all our assets are actually in Mark's company's name. He's getting the apartment, the yacht, the house in East Hampton. I'm getting four hundred thousand flat-that's it." Mrs. X swallows and Binky continues tearfully. "And I have to supply complete receipts for every penny of child support spent. I mean, really. Am I supposed to get my facials at Baby Gap?"

"That's appalling."

"Then the judge had the nerve to tell me to go back to work! He has no idea what it means to be a mom."

"None of them do," Mrs. X says, tapping her list for emphasis, while I stare intently at my brioche.

"If I had known he was going to go this far, I would have just turned a blind-" Binky's voice breaks and she purses her glossy lips together to clear her throat. "Well, I've gotta run-Consuela has another 'appointment' for her hip replacement." She speaks with venom. "I swear, it's the third one this month. I'm really losing patience with her. Anyway, great to see you." She pushes her sunglasses back into place and, with an air kiss, disappears through the crowd awaiting tables.

"Well..." Mrs. X stares after her, her face locked briefly into a grimace before returning her attention to me. "Well, let's just go over the week. I've typed this all up for you, so you can review it later. We'll walk over to school now, so Grayer can see us together and get the sense that I'm trusting you with him. That should relax him. He has a play date at one-thirty, so that'll give you just enough time to have lunch in the park and yet not overwhelm him. Then tomorrow you and Caitlin can both spend the afternoon with him, so you can get a sense of his routine and he can see the authority being shared between you. I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss the transition with her at this point."

"Of course," I say, trying to absorb it all, the brioches, the briefing, Binky. "Thank you for breakfast."

"Oh, don't mention it." She stands, pulling a blue folder that says "Nanny" out of her Hermes bag and sliding it across the table. "I'm so glad Tuesdays and Thursdays fit into your class schedule. I think it'll be great for Grayer to have someone young and fun to play with-I'm sure he gets tired of boring old Mom!"

"Grayer seems great," I say, recalling his giggles in the park.

"Well, he has his little things, like any kid, I suppose."

I gather my bag, glancing down and noticing her lavender silk heels for the first time. "God, those are beautiful! Are they Prada?" I ask, recognizing the silver buckle.

"Oh, thank you." She turns her ankle. "Yes, they are. You really like them?" I nod. "You don't think they're too ... loud?"

"Oh, no," I say, following her out of the cafe.

"My best friend just had a baby and her feet went up a whole size. She let me pick out what I wanted, but I... I don't know." She glances down at her shoes in consternation as we wait for the light. "I guess I've just gotten used to wearing flats."

"No, they're great. You should definitely keep them."

She smiles, delighted, as she slides on her sunglasses.

Mrs. Butters, Grayer's teacher, smiles at me and shakes my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you." She looks down adoringly. "You are going to love Grayer, he's a very special little boy." She pats her corduroy apron dress, which fits loosely over her puffed-sleeve blouse. With her round, dimpled cheeks and plump, dimpled hands she looks much like a four-year-old herself.

"Hi, Grayer!" I say, smiling down at the top of his blond head. He's wearing a little white oxford button-down Polo shirt, untucked on one side, containing the evidence of a morning hard at work: finger paint, what looks like glue, and one lone macaroni. "How was school today?"

"Grayer, you remember Nanny? You two are going to have lunch at the playground!" his mother prompts him.

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