A knock on the front door. “If that’s the bartender, tell him to stay,” Wallis shouted as I got up and walked into the small foyer, or foy-yay, as Cricket pronounced it.

I answered the door, surprised to find Atlas on the stoop, his peacoat buttoned to the chin. “I don’t want to impose,” he said immediately. “Are you all right? I just wanted to check.” He rubbed his gloveless hands together. “Sorry, Daisy. I should’ve called—”

I opened the door wider, relieved to see his face, to hear his voice. I rocked forward on my toes and smiled, trying to embrace the power of his calming presence. “You’ve been invited in, Dracula.”

“Dracula, is it?” In the entry, he glanced in Cricket’s small giltwood mirror topped with a nose-diving eagle. “I am pale enough.”

“Look at me.” I took quick stock of my own reflection. I swear I had put on makeup that morning, although there seemed to be no evidence of it now; my dark circles and fine worry lines had defiantly surfaced. “Better yet, don’t.”

“An impossible order,” he said quietly. “Despite—everything, you look lovely, Daisy. Really.”

“Atlas!” Wallis had found us. “You didn’t bring vodka, did you?” she asked, hugging him.

“Afraid not,” he replied. In the living room, Cricket kissed him twice on the cheeks and then wiped off her lipstick stains with her thumbs. “But I have tea.”

“Perfect,” said Cricket. “I’ll set the kettle. And I hope you’re hungry. I ordered enough finger sandwiches to feed this entire town.” There was a pause as we all considered the emptiness of the room. Cricket had rented chairs, the nice bamboo sort, placed them carefully around the room to encourage flow and conversation. Unlit votive candles decorated nearly every surface alongside small vases of roses, white, classy, timeless. “You can have your pick,” she pressed on, cheery. “Smoked salmon? Tuna? Watercress? Don’t know why I ordered that last one, never liked watercress.”

“I like watercress,” said Atlas. “My father does, too. Watercress and—”

“Egg salad,” I finished for him. “Your favorite. At The Savoy, right?”

He tapped my temple with his finger and smiled at me. “Memory like a steel trap, this one.”

We gathered around the kitchen island, and Atlas inquired again how we all were. All of our answers included the word okay.