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head into the room.
    “Lunch, ma’am. Please come with me.”
    I followed her back out into the hallway, down the stairs, across the massive foyer, and into a part of the house I hadn’t yet seen. We walked from room to opulent room until we reached a closed set of ornately carved double wooden doors.
    “Mrs. Sinclair wishes to take lunch today in the west salon,” she informed me, opening the doors to reveal a high-ceilinged room with an entire wall of paned windows on one side and a grand fireplace on the other. The wood floors gleamed.
    Whereas many of the rooms that I had seen at Havenwood were formal and imposing, this one had a more casual feel. A long window seat, strewn with colorful pillows and afghans, ran from end to end in front of the windows, and two couches, upholstered with a deep tapestry print, faced each other in front of the fireplace, flanked by wing chairs with ottomans. Four tables with accompanying chairs stood in the corners of the room, almost as if this were set up as a library or place of study. One of them, a round table nearest the wall of windows, was set for two.
    “Mrs. Sinclair will join you in just a moment,” Marion said before she turned and made her way back down the hall.
    I settled onto one of the couches, sinking down into its soft cushions, and as I did so, a slight coldness brushed past me. A whisper of a breeze. I glanced toward the windows, but none of them was opened. Why would they be on a winter day? I crossed my arms in front of my chest and reasoned that, in a house this size, breezes must waft down halls and through corridors and around pillars all the time.
    “Julia!” It was Mrs. Sinclair, entering the room with her arms wide, as though she were alighting after floating here on that very breeze. “You haven’t gotten lost yet in this maze of a house, I trust?”
    She had changed clothes since breakfast. Now she was wearing a green velour jogging suit, accented by several long strands of silver beads around her neck. Silver bracelets jangled on one wrist, and on one finger, an enormous diamond ring, so big it seemed to weigh her down. Her hair, colored bright red, was cropped short and tousled, bangs framing her face.
    She seemed somehow much younger now than she had just hours earlier. This was the Amaris Sinclair I remembered from book jacket photographs and talk show appearances.
    I got to my feet and smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Sinclair,” I said, moving across the room toward her. “Did you have a pleasant morning?”
    “Oh yes, oh my yes,” she said, pulling out one of the chairs at the set table and gesturing toward the other. “Are you a fan of yoga, my dear?”
    I sat down across from her and placed a napkin on my lap. “I’ve done it a few times at my gym in Chicago. It’s more difficult than it looks!”
    “Indeed,” she said, taking a sip from her water glass, her green eyes shining. “I highly recommend it as one ages. It keeps these old muscles on their toes.”
    Marion returned, pushing a silver cart.
    “Ah, Marion. What do you have for us today? Not scallops, I hope.” She winked at me, a slight smile curling up at the corners of her mouth.
    “After fifty years, if I would be serving you a scallop, you’d know to call the paramedics for I’d be out of my mind,” Marion huffed, sliding open the roll top on the tray to reveal two earthenware crocks, a basket of bread, and a pitcher of water. “It’s French onion soup today.”
    She set the bowls of soup in front of us, golden-brown cheese still bubbling across the rims, and the basket of crusty French bread and butter in the middle of the table. The sweet aroma of caramelized onions swirled between us. It smelled heavenly.
    “Well now, dear,” Mrs. Sinclair began, raising a spoonful to her lips and blowing on it slightly, “let us set about the business of getting to know each other, shall we?”
    “I’d like that very much.”
    “Tell me all about yourself, Julia. I love nothing