And Page talks, her voice rising several decibels too high for a museum. I’m so close to wanting to tell her to shut up, but I can’t offend her. Not this early on. “I want to go to Ruthie’s parents’ place in Accord. I hear they have American quarter horses. One of them won the AQHA World Champion Show last year, in the reining category, so it seems like some kind of side hustle for them? Though that horse upkeep definitely exceeds whatever money you get in prizes. I didn’t know you people in New York rode Western like they do in Texas. And did you see Clarissa’s Etsy shop? It is so cool. She makes this, like, welded jewelry. I’m trying to get her to gift me a piece. I wonder if she wholesales the jewelry or if it’s all direct to consumer. Oh, and Joanie’s having some kind of party in a few weeks. She wrote a book! It’s something about parenting.” And on and on and on.

Quinn turns to her as we enter the small Decorative Arts wing, a puzzled smile plastered on his face. “Are you in a group chat with them or something?”

Page nods. “I’m also chatting a lot with Louisa, you know, whose house I’m staying in. She’s so nice.” And she launches into a story about Louisa giving her a list of restaurants to try in Cobble Hill, the best dry cleaner and shoe repairman.

I think back to that other tidbit Shirley let loose, about Page’s earnestness, her yearning to meet all of Odilie’s friends, which goes completely against what she told me.

I wander away to an exhibition of Hannah Hoch’s work, get lost in a wall of her Dada collages, defying the Weimar German government, the clutter and creepiness of them, the unsettling feeling I have that I’m being watched again and again by the photomontages of heads plastered on legs, by the eyes detached completely from a face.

On our walk back, Quinn is quiet, like he’s fumbling with something, a stone he’s about to skip on the surface of the sea to see if it sinks or glides. Finally, “There’s something weird about Page.” We pass the doorman-staffed buildings lining Prospect Park and Eastern Parkway, a woman talking loudly on the phone about her ex-husband, a group of kids with a soccer ball running toward the park. “It’s like she’s putting on an act.” He takes a puff from his Juul.

“What do you mean?” I say absently, my mind still on Hannah Hoch’s work.

“It’s like she’s intent on making us see her one way, making Odilie’s friends see her another way. I can’t quite put my finger on it. She seems too eager?” He lets the question float between us and I shrug.