Manhattan, New York City

"It's your mother," Nicole Berman's father said over the phone.

She rose from her desk at the sound of his voice. "What happened?"

"Broken hip. She's at Sinai on Madison."

"Hip? How, Dad?"

"You know what I know. How soon can you get there?"

"On my way," she said, juggling her phone to pull on her trench coat.

"Use a foundation car, Nic."

"Quicker to walk. It's rush hour here. What time is it there?"

"Coming up on eleven," he said, "and there's nothing leaving here tonight. I'm on standby out of de Gaulle in the morning, but I'm way down the list. I'll charter if I have to."

"Oh, Dad! You sure?"

"Are you moving, hon?"

"At the elevator. Should be there in twenty minutes. Want me to call, tell her I'm on my way?"

"No, they tell me she's already sedated for surgery. Text me as soon as you know anyth —"

"'Course, but don't charter till I find out how serious this is. You're probably looking at —"

"Six figures," he said. "I know. But even picking up six hours, if I get out of here by eight in the morning, it's gonna be noon before I get into the city."

"Mom wouldn't want you to spend —"

"Don't bother her with that! We're flush as we've ever been and —"

But the call dropped when the elevator closed.

Nicole's lengthy strides made up for having to wait to cross Lexington and then Park Avenue. The fall sun had already dipped behind the buildings on the west side of Park, leaving a nip in the air that only quickened her pace.

At Mount Sinai Hospital, Reception summoned from upstairs a petite, black woman of about twenty-five. She introduced herself as Kayla and gave Nicole a visitor badge. "I'll take you directly to ICU, Dr. Berman."

"It's that bad?"

"With top-tier patients we take every precaution," Kayla said as they walked. "Let me express on behalf of our entire administrative team how grateful we are for The Berman Foundation. We —"

"I appreciate that, but what happened? Did she —"

"Housekeeper says she tripped on a rug. That's common among —"

"Not for her. She's still active, works out ..."

"The surgeon will bring you up to speed. And a heads-up: he only looks twelve. He's thirty-five and one of our best ortho guys."

In ICU, Kayla began to introduce personnel, but Nicole brushed past them and cupped her mother's face in her palms. "I'm here." She leaned close and studied a bright red scrape on her mother's forehead that appeared to have been treated with ointment. Nicole turned to the surgeon. Script sewn above the breast pocket of his lab coat read "L. Thorn, M.D." It was good Kayla had warned her. If this guy was only a few years younger than she ...

"We assume the contusion is a rug burn," he said.

"Oh, Mama, what happened?" Seeing her like this made everything else in Nicole's life pale — and her plate was loaded.

Her mother appeared to try to raise a hand but closed her eyes, brow furrowed as if in pain. "Doctor, thish ish my ..."

A nurse said, "She's been talking about you nonstop. You're up for some sort of a license or permit or —?"

"She shouldn't have to suffer, should she?" Nicole said.

"She won't remember any of this," the anesthesiologist said. "There, she's out now."

"Doctor, my father should be here tomorrow. Could you delay op —?"

Dr. Thorn shook his head. "Unwise. Waiting increases the risk of mortality, especially for someone your mother's age. Fortunately, she has no history of heart disease. But the sooner I get in there, the better chance I'll have to restore mobility. We're next in line for surgery."

Nicole sat alone in the waiting room, trading texts with her father. She left out the doctor's mention of mortality and asked if he had been informed by the new housekeeper. He wrote no, that he had heard from his assistant, Abigail.

No surprise, Nicole had had to get the word from her father from across the Atlantic, despite that Abigail sat in the adjacent office at The Berman Foundation. But now was not the time to revisit that years-long cold war.

Her father texted that he wouldn't have been able to understand the housekeeper anyway, "but praise God she was there." He added that he had finagled a seat on the eight a.m. flight. "Thats 2 a.m. ur time so c u by noon tomorrow"

Nicole prided herself in writing properly even when texting. "And what did that finagling cost?"

"2x what the guy paid"

"Meaning?"

"&8364;15,000. way less than charter"

She definitely would keep that from her mother, the former accountant for the foundation. "Get some sleep and have a safe trip, Dad."

"Any word on the permit, Nic?"

"Nothing. Can't think about that now anyway."

For months it had been all she thought about.

Nicole had never been good at waiting. She wouldn't be able to concentrate on any of the more than two hundred ebooks on her phone. And she could think of nothing to pray beyond, "Be with Mom and spare her." She and her mother had never been closer than now. Tripped in her own home? Nicole couldn't make it compute. Her mother was still youthful, active at sixty-six.

Plaques on the wall honored her parents. This very waiting room had been "generously provided by Benzion and Virginia Berman." In the reflection off the glass of one framed certificate, Nicole noticed Kayla approaching the door behind her. She steeled herself, silently rehearsing dismissive language she hoped wouldn't offend.

But Kayla handed her a large coffee. "Two creams, no sugar, right?" she said.

"Exactly," Nicole said, thanking her. "Have we met before? Sorry if I —"

"No, no, we just do our homework. What I don't know is whether you prefer to be alone or would like me to —"

"Kind of you, but I confess I —"

"Not at all," Kayla said. "Here's my card if you need anything." She glanced at her watch. "I'm off at six, but call any time. I do just want to say that I almost majored in archaeology myself. You're such an inspiration. Not many women —"

"I've been fortunate. Without my father's foundation ..."

"Still," Kayla said, heading toward the door, "you've earned it. I — well, sorry, I'll leave you, but maybe I'll join one of your dig teams some day."

Two hours later, Nicole had tossed what was left of her coffee and sat with her coat draped over her knees, one foot bouncing.

The news and celebrity magazines didn't appeal, nor did the TV. She stared at the glacial clock, willing Dr. Thorn to appear. Why hadn't she asked how long this should take? Nicole almost wished she'd taken Kayla up on her offer of company, but why spoil a young woman's time off?

Most frustrating was not knowing when or if she should start worrying. Nicole began to Google it, but before she could finish, her mother's surgeon entered and she leapt to her feet.

"Sorry, Dr. Berman," Thorn said, "no news yet. Previous surgery went long, and housekeeping just got in there to disinfect. We can get started as soon as everything's dry."

"Surely not every operating room is in use," Nicole said.

"The ortho ones are, and they have the equipment I need. Plus, this is providential. I didn't expect to have the sales rep in the room, but we had time to track him down."

"Sorry? Sales...