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was classic Armani, sophisticated but understated. The jacquard by Albert Nipon was more feminine. Neither was what she really wanted, she thought as her eyes roamed the closet. She had a closing that afternoon, and then she and Noah were meeting with a client for dinner that evening. She wanted to feel young, fresh, hip.
    How ridiculous, she thought, as she rifled through one cedar hanger after another. She had a closet that was bigger than the average person’s bedroom and it was full of designer clothes, yet she couldn’t find anything suitable to wear to the office. She supposed the size of one’s closet had little to do with that, since she could distinctly remember having this very same problem before Bradford had started making millions, back when she could count the number of suits she owned on one hand.
    She finally settled on the Armani, and after a quick shower she applied her makeup, then selected the Mikimoto pearl earrings from her jewelry box and skipped down the stairs. That was when she noticed the scent of tobacco coming from Bradford’s study.
    Her pumps clacked on the marble floor as she crossed the foyer and entered the wood-paneled library. Bradford was sitting at his mahogany desk puffing on a cigar and reading several newspapers all at once—the
Wall Street Journal
, the
Washington Post
, the
New York
Times
, and one or two others.
    “Working at home today?” she asked as she inserted her earrings.
    “Just for a while,” he said without looking up from his newspapers. “I have a meeting with a client late this afternoon.”
    “And I have that closing today,” she said. “Then I’m having dinner with Noah and another client. So I’ll be late getting home.”
    He glanced up, and she knew what he was about to ask before he opened his mouth. “Phyllis will be here by noon,” she said. “I left instructions for her to get your dinner before she goes home for the day.”
    “That sounds fine.” He went back to his papers.
    “Bradford, did you hear what I just said? I’m closing on a house today. I may not run a multimillion-dollar technology firm, but this
is
my first sale and it’s important to me. The least you could do is pretend to show some interest.”
    Bradford looked up again. “Sorry, Barb. It’s just that I have a long day and I was trying to get through the financial pages.” He put his cigar in the ashtray then stood, walked around his desk, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Congratulations. Sounds like you done good.”
    “Thank you,” she said, smiling with pride.
    “Is the house nearby?”
    Barbara shook her head. “No, it’s a town house on the southern side of Silver Lake, over there near where Pearl lives.”
    Bradford sat down, leaned back in his black leather chair, and puffed on his cigar. “Who’s the buyer?”
    “A young black woman named Sharon. She’s single, in her late thirties. She’s an up-and-coming lawyer but she couldn’t afford to move to this side of Silver Lake. At least not yet.”
    Bradford nodded. “What was the sale price?”
    “Two-sixty.”
    Bradford made a clucking sound. “Is that all those town houses are going for? I don’t see why you bother with a two-bit deal like that, Barb. Your commission will be what? Around fifteen thousand?”
    She shrugged. “Less since I have to split it with the buyer’s agent.”
    He shook his head. “You should be going after clients like the Wrights. They were in the market for something just over a million, weren’t they? Did you ever clean up that mess with them?”
    Barbara winced. She thought about telling him that Bernice Wright was the client she was having dinner with that evening, but Bradford blamed her for a recent real estate fiasco with the Wrights and she was reluctant.
    Bernard Wright was one of Bradford’s business subcontractors, and Bradford had introduced her to the Wrights when he learned that they were hunting for a new house. Barbara preferred clients who had not