“My mother had once told Riegel and me this story about a friend of hers who lived in Newport. “Poor Celia,” she’d said. “She lost two of her houses to hurricanes. Still has the farm in Rhinebeck, and it’s a lucky thing that she has the ranch in Jackson Hole and her home on Jupiter Island. Otherwise, I just don’t know what she would do.” Riegel and I both dropped to our knees with laughter. The phrase “Poor Celia” became code for us. A shorthand for outrageous privilege.”
