“You look better and don’t stink like cigarettes. And you haven’t gotten fat. Geez, this is a dinky airport,” said Lucy, whose computer brain had formatting errors in the diplomacy sectors. “Why do they call it Richmond International?”

“Because it has flights to Miami.”

“Why doesn’t Grans ever come see you?”

“She doesn’t like to travel and refuses to fly.”

“It’s safer than driving. Her hip is really getting bad, Aunt Kay.”

“I know. I’m going to leave you to get your bags so I can pull the car in front,” I said when we got to Baggage. “But first let’s see which carousel it is.”

“There are only three carousels. I bet I can figure it out.”

I left her for the bright, cold air, grateful for a moment alone to think. The changes in my niece had thrown me off guard and I was suddenly more unsure than ever how to treat her. Lucy had never been easy. From day one she had been a prodigious adult intellect ruled by infantile emotions, a volatility accidentally given form when her mother had married Armando. My only advantage had been size and age. Now Lucy was as tall as I was and spoke with the low, calm voice of an equal. She was not going to run to her room and slam the door. She would no longer end a disagreement by screaming that she hated me or was glad I was not her mother. I imagined moods I could not anticipate and arguments I could not win. I had visions of her coolly leaving the house and driving off in my car.

We talked little during the drive, for Lucy seemed fascinated by the winter weather. The world was melting like an ice sculpture as another cold front appeared on the horizon in an ominous band of gray. When we turned into the neighborhood where I had moved since she had visited last, she stared out at expensive homes and lawns, at colonial Christmas decorations and brick sidewalks. A man dressed like an Eskimo was out walking his old, overweight dog, and a black Jaguar gray with road salt sprayed water as it slowly floated past.

“It’s Sunday. Where are the children, or aren’t there any?” Lucy said as if the observation incriminated me in some way.

“There are a few.” I turned on my street.

“No bikes in the yards, no sleds or tree houses. Doesn’t anybody ever go outside?”

“This is a very quiet neighborhood.”

“Is that why you chose it?”

“In part. It’s also quite safe, and hopefully buying a home here will prove to be a good investment.”

“Private security?”

“Yes,” I said as my uneasiness grew.

She continued staring out at the large homes flowing past. “I bet you can go inside and shut the door and never hear from anyone never see anyone outside, either, unless they’re walking their dog. But you don’t have a dog. How many trick-or- treaters did you have on Halloween?”