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just in time for the second tour.
    When I stepped onto the porch, I had a sudden vision of a swing that used to hang in the corner. I could almost see my sister, Caroline, sitting there, her feet on the swing, her arms wrapped around her knees, her sandy, straight hair fal ing around her shoulders. She was always so quiet, so stil , and in the summers, she spent much of her time on that swing. She never read or even hummed to herself. She just sat. I remembered myself, years younger than my newly teenage sister, coming out of the house to peek at her, wondering what tragedies she was mul ing over. Although no one had given me that impression, I always imagined Caroline as a complicated and tragic figure.
    “MayIhelpyou?”Avoicestartledmeawayfrom the memory. I turned to see a young woman in the doorway with dark hair twisted up in a loose knot.
    “Hi. I’m here for the tour.”
    “Great. C’mon in.” The woman stepped inside and held open the door. “We don’t get too many visitors until the summer real y starts, so I’m glad to have you.”
    My first thought when I stepped into the front hal , a wide foyer with molded plaster ceilings, was that the house was much darker now. Maybe I was mistaken or simply remembering poorly, but I always thought the house had been sun-fil ed and airy, even in the winter. Now the house had a shuttered, impersonal feel, a museum feel, which I supposed wasn’t surprising, since it was a museum of sorts now.
    “I’m Jan,” the guide said, extending her hand. She was probably no older than twenty-one. She wore little makeup and a simple outfit of khaki pants and a blue T-shirt.
    “Hailey.” I shook her hand.
    “Are you from around here?”
    “No. New York.” I didn’t mention that I used to be from around here, that I used to live in this house. For now, I wanted to keep my memories to myself. It had been so long since I let them in.
    “Let’sstartthetouroverhere.”Janledthewayto theright,pastopenpocketdoorsandintothelibrary.
    The inlaid mahogany bookshelves were stil in place, as were the Tiffany lamps, permanently instal ed at the top of each shelf. At the end of the room was a huge pink marble fireplace that my dad used to cal the “bordel o fireplace.” It was so tal that I used to be able to walk directly into it without ducking. As I walked toward it now, I realized that I was a long way from that little girl. At five foot six, I could easily reach the mantel.
    I took in the whole room, vaguely aware of Jan’s talkabouthowthehousehadbeencompletedforthe Marker family in 1905, how craftsmen had needed the previous six years to complete it.
    Like the entryway, the library appeared much darker than I remembered, probably because it was now adorned withperiodfurnishingsfromtheearly1900stomake itlookasitdidbackthen—
    heavyredvelvetdrapes, brass candelabras, uncomfortable-looking highbackchairs.ButIsawitasmymotherhaddecorated it—with soft, stuffed chairs and ottomans, vases of fresh flowers, and the corner that was saved just for me, complete with a smal child’s chair, the replica ofthelargerones,andmyownminiaturebookcases.
    “How do you like it?” I heard Jan ask.
    “Oh, it’s lovely. I was just imagining what it would have been like to live here.”
    “Wel , when the Markers were here, they had a ful staff of servants to carry out their every whim, and they entertained often. The Markers were famous for their bal s and their travels.”
    And what about the Sutter family? I wanted to ask. What were they famous for? Does anyone remember them?
    Next, Jan led me to a large drawing room on the other side of the hal way. I listened to her speech about the oil paintings and the marble sculptures, because the room held few memories for me. I couldn’trecal myfamilyspendingmuchtimethere.
    But no, that wasn’t quite right. A recol ection came to me of my brother, Dan, seventeen years old when I was only seven, hunched over a scarred octagonal table, his straight blond