She nodded sadly.

“And which dolly was that?”

A surprisingly quick response: “A Barbie. One of my favorites.”

“And you weren't by any chance doing a little bit of spying while you were down there, were you?”

At first she didn't answer; she darted her eyes around the room, to see if anyone was in earshot. Then, in the tone of the tattletale, she said, “Those girls are showing their boobies, Daddy! Look…” She lifted her arm to point to the half-naked girls.

I gently pushed it back down. “Okay, sweetie; it's not nice to point.”

I was ransacking my mind for something to say, when she said, “Why do they have their boobies out in public?”

I was appalled, aghast. How could these girls expose my six-year-old daughter to such a thing? (Their fault, not mine.) There was a certain decorum, wasn't there? “Those girls are French,” I said casually. “And in France, girls take their tops off when they go to the beach.” It was sort of true, at least.

Wondrously: “They do?”

I nodded eagerly. “Yeah, they do, sweetie. That's their custom.”

Chandler looked at the girls again, her lips twisted in thought. Then she looked back at me and said, “But we're not inFrance, Daddy; we're in America.”

I was bowled over. My daughter was brilliant! Even at the tender age of six she knew inappropriate behavior when she saw it. With a little bit of luck, I thought, she wouldn't report it to her mother. “Well, you're right,” I said, “we arein America, but I think the French girls might've forgotten.” I kissed her on the cheek again. “Come on, let's go take a walk on the beach together. We can remind them on the way.”

“Okay!” she said happily. “I'll remind them.”

Outside on the deck, I beat Chandler to the punch. “Okay!” I yelled to the bare-breasted duo, as Chandler and I hurried past. “You gotta keep your tops on while you're visiting our country! Save that for St. Tropez!”

They smiled and flashed us the thumbs-up sign, seeming to understand.

Chandler said, “They got big boobies—like Mommy's!“

“That's true,” I said, and it's because they all use the same doctor,“but I think you should just pretend you never saw them.” Better to discuss this with your therapist down the road, when you're a troubled teen trying to make sense of the insanity your soon-to-be-jailed father exposed you to during his final days of freedom.

With that thought, I reached down to my innocent daughter and said, “Come on, I'll carry you to the beach, silly goose!” She jumped into my arms, and off we went, father and daughter, enjoying our last days together on Meadow Lane.

As sweltering as it was on the streets of Manhattan, it was perfectly comfortable at the edge of the ocean. It was as if every last drop of humidity had been sucked out of the atmosphere, replaced by an air mass so pleasant and inspiring that it felt like a gift from God Himself. As Chandler and I walked along the water's edge, her tiny hand in mine, the insanity of my life seemed to be held in harness. Every so often a middle-aged couple or a stray jogger would pass by and smile approvingly, to which I would smile back.

There was so much I wanted to tell Chandler, and so much I knew I couldn't. One day, of course, I would tell her everything— about all the mistakes I'd made and how the greed and drugs had all but destroyed me—but not until many years from now, when she was old enough to understand. So we spoke only of simple things today—of the seashells on the beach, of the dozens of sand castles we'd built over the years, and of all the holes we'd dug to China, only to give up after hitting water a few feet down. Then she nearly knocked the wind out of me when she said, “Guess what, Daddy? My sisters are coming into town tomorrow,” and she kept right on walking.

For a split second I didn't know what she was talking about, or at least that's what I told myself. Deep down, though, I knew: She had been referring to John's daughters, Nicky and Allie. Nicky was a few years older than Chandler, but Allie was exactly the same age. The perfect playmate, I thought.

John Macaluso: I was hearing more and more about him lately, and not just from the kids but also from the handful of friends the Duchess and I still shared. Thankfully, I was hearing only good things—that he was a very decent guy, that he'd been divorced twice himself, and that he didn't do drugs. Most important, however, was that my kids liked him. So I liked him too. As long as he treated them well, he would be aces with me—always.

With that thought, I said, “Do you mean John'sdaughters, sweetie?”

“Yes!” she said eagerly. “They're flying in from California tomorrow, and they're coming out to the beach!”

A lovely thought: the Duchess gallivanting around the Hamptons with another man. Then a darker thought: If, after only a few months of knowing them, Chandler was already referring to John's daughters as her “sisters,” might she one day refer to John as her father? For a moment I felt very concerned—but only for a moment.

I would always be my children's daddy,and there could be no other. Besides, the ability to love was not mutually exclusive. So let them be loved by anyone and everyone, and let them return that love in spades. There was enough to go around for everyone.

“Well, that's great,” I said warmly. “That's really great. I'm sure you'll have a ball with them this week. Maybe one day I'll get to meet them.”

She nodded happily, and we spent a few more minutes walking and talking. Then we headed back to the mansion. A long mahogany walkway, bounded by thick dock ropes on either side, led you over the dunes to the rear deck. As I carried Chandler along the walkway, my spirits sank lower with each step.

The Romans were waiting.

Why did I subject myself to this? I wondered. Was all this self-torture in the simple name of getting laid? It couldn't be, could it? I mean, I wasn't reallythat shallow, was I? In fact, that was just what I was thinking when I first laid eyes on her.

She was tall and blond, and she stood out among the Romans like a diamond among rhinestones. She seemed to swayto the music, in perfect time and rhythm. She seemed aloof to the Scene, as if she was a casual observer and not a member.

At first glance she struck me as the sort of girl I would never dare approach in a nightclub and ask to dance. She was the better part of five-nine, and her blond hair gleamed like polished gold. She was wearing a white cotton skirt, very short, a good six inches above the knee, revealing her long bare legs, which were flawless. She wore a light-pink baby-T that hugged her luscious breasts like a second skin and exposed her perfectly toned tummy and belly button. Her feet were shod in the merest of white sandals, although it was obvious, even at a glance, that they had cost a fortune.

Then— a terrible shock!

From behind the blond vision emerged a horrendous-looking creature. It was short and squat and had the face of a bulldog. Its body seemed to be comprised of thick cylindrical stubs, glued together in haste by nothing but God's good humor. The Creature had burnt-orange hair, pale skin, thick fleshy features, the nose of a prizefighter, and a very wide jaw. It wore a short purple sundress, which hung on its stout frame like a printer's smock. The smock was very low-cut, exposing all but the tips of its sagging D-cups. The Creature grabbed the blond vision by the hand and came waddling. I felt Chandler recoil in my arms.

“Come, Yulichka,” the Creature snapped to the blond vision, in a gravelly voice that reeked of Brooklyn, Russia, the gutter, whiskey, the Teamsters’ Union, and late-stage throat cancer. “This is the owner of the house. I want you to meet him.”

I was shocked—and awed. Beauty and the Beast, I thought.