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She admired feminine modesty and looked down at women who tried to appear too sexy.

For a girl of only twenty-two, Casey Han had numerous theories of beauty and sexuality, but the essence of her philosophy was that allure trumped obvious display.

She'd read that Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis advised a woman to dress like a column, and Casey never failed to follow that instruction.

Seated in the spacious linoleum-covered kitchen of her parents' rent-controlled two-bedroom in Elmhurst, Casey looked out of place in her white linen shirt and white cotton slacks—dressed as if she were about to have a gin and tonic brought to her on a silver tray.

Next to her at the Formica-topped table, her father, Joseph Han, could've easily passed for her grandfather.

He filled his tumbler with ice for his first whiskey of the evening.

An hour earlier, he'd returned from a Saturday of sorting laundry at the Sutton Place drop shop that he ran for Mr.

Kang, a wealthy Korean who owned a dozen dry-cleaning stores.

Joseph and his daughter Casey did not speak to each other.

Casey's younger sister, Tina—a Bronx Science Westinghouse finalist, vice president of the Campus Christian Crusade at MIT, and a premed—was their father's favorite.

A classical Korean beauty, Tina was the picture of the girls' mother, Leah, in her youth.

Leah bustled abo...

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