“T thought we could go to breakfast at Channing’s.” “Mom, no one goes to Channing’s anymore.” “T hate to break it to you, but if J go to Channing’s, Channing’s will still be considered cool.” “This is exactly what I’m talking about when I say you’re impossible.” “All I’m trying to do is take you to eat French toast, Connie. There are worse things.” There was a knock on the door of the Hollywood Hills bungalow I’d rented. I opened it to see Harry. “I gotta go, Mom,” Connor said. “Karen is coming over. Luisa’s making us barbecue meat loaf,” she said. “Wait one second,” I said. “Your father is here. He wants to say hi to you. Good-bye, honey. I'll see you tomorrow.” I handed Harry the phone. “Hi, little bug . . . Well, she has a point. If your mother shows up somewhere, that does sort of mean that, by definition, it will be considered a hot spot... That’s fine . . . That’s fine. Tomorrow morning, the three of us will go out for breakfast, and we can go to whatever the cool new place is .. . It’s called what? Wiffles? What kind of a name is that? ... OK, OK. We'll go to Wiffles. All right, honey, good night. I love you. I'll see you tomorrow.” Harry sat down on my bed and looked at me. “Apparently, we are going to Wiffles.” “You're like putty in her hands, Harry,” I said. He shrugged. “I feel no shame in it.” He stood up and poured himself a glass of water while I continued packing. “Listen, I have an idea,” he said. As he moved closer to me, I realized he smelled vaguely of liquor. “About what?” “About Europe.” “OK...” I said. I had resigned to letting it go until Harry and I were settled back in New York. I assumed that then he and I would have the time, and the patience, to discuss it in more depth. I thought the idea was good for Connor. New York, as much as I loved it, had become a somewhat dangerous place to live. Crime rates were skyrocketing, and drugs were everywhere. We were fairly