His right eyebrow joined the left one, high up in the creases of his forehead. “You’re Eden?”

I propped a hand on my hip and smiled with my lips pressed together. “C’est moi.”

“And . . . and you want to talk to Ms. Dufresne?”

“I sure do. Last time I saw her, she made it pretty clear she had some things to say to me; I just thought I’d give her the opportunity.”

He faltered, dropping his hand down the door until it fell to rest atop the knob. With his other hand, he rubbed at the wrinkle on his forehead that now threatened to swallow both brows whole. “But I don’t think . . . I don’t think they’re . . . very nice things.”

I laughed, but not too loud or hard. “You know her well, then. You’ve worked for her a long time?”

He permitted himself a smile, slowly catching up to my nervous good humor. “Many years. Though not as many as it sometimes seems.” His arm pulled the door open and he stepped aside. “Do come in. I’ll tell Ms. Dufresne you’re here.”

“I would very much appreciate that,” I said, swooping past him and into a marvelous hallway with a lengthy Turkish carpet spread over the wooden floors. The doorman led me into the parlor—there was actually a parlor—and asked me to wait while he went up to announce my arrival. I complied, sitting on a high, velvetpadded chair at the fully stocked wet bar that gleamed brass and mahogany.

I expected the man to return and say something like, “The lady will see you now,” but instead old Tatie came shuffling down the stairs alone. She was small and unfathomably old, but she held herself upright and stiff as an arrow, and she was quick on her feet. Her fingers grazed the rail for effect and not for support.

She stomped towards me, her mouth set in a straight line and her fierce blue eyes exposing no hint of senility. She did not politely stop at the edge of my 2.5 feet of personal space but pushed her way in farther, until she was right under my chin—close enough that I could count the liver spots and upper lip hairs. I did not back up, but folded my arms between us and let her look at me. Her nostrils flared slightly and she took a step away, turning towards the bar.

“You’re old enough to drink, aren’t you?” she asked, glancing toward the bar.

“You know I am.”

“Well, I suppose you are. What’ll you have?”

I think she was trying to convey that she never thought about me. I didn’t buy it, but I let it slide. “Surprise me.”

Eliza did not look over her shoulder but called out to the doorman, who had crept in a few moments behind her. “Harry, make us a couple of gin and tonics.”

“Yes, ma’am.”