“Fame, no.” I thought of the photo of me smiling at Melinda Darley. “Maybe fortune.” I thought of the little cottage on the lake that was no longer ours, and my old bedroom on the top floor, and the childhood summers spent under the slanting gable, with its painted floors and iron bed and stacks of books I devoured when I was supposed to be sleeping. I’d caught a trout in that lake once, after just four hours and six failed reels. Gregory, uncharacteristically patient throughout, had celebrated like I’d won an Oscar. We’d been happier at the lake; my father, too, was less of his politician character, less thin-skinned and more—Dad.

“Oh, Dodo,” Wallis said, pushing her plate aside. “I think you’re just saying that because we’ve lost all ours. I don’t need a fortune to be happy. Just enough to be comfortable.”

“I think,” I said, “that your definition of comfort is my definition of luxury.”

“We should all start buying scratch-off tickets!” Cricket piped in.

“I can image exactly what I’d do with my share of the winnings,” Wallis said.

“I can guess,” Atlas said. “You’d buy back the house on P Street.” A beat or two of silence followed before he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. That was the wrong thing to say.”

“Not at all,” Wallis said. “I don’t mind thinking about our years in that house. I know it holds painful memories for Mom and Daisy, but I was always happy there. You’re right. With my imaginary fortune I’d almost certainly have to go back to that house.”

“Our riches, for now, remain imaginary,” I said.

Wallis had no response to this, except to shrug. “We’re not rich in anything. Not money, not credibility. But I still think Daisy should do the interview.”

She soon excused herself with little attempt at civility, and retreated to her room. In her absence, Atlas seemed to withdraw into himself, leaving Cricket and me to clean the table wordlessly. I was rinsing dried red sauce in the sink when I heard him push back from his chair.

“There is something truly awful about cold Sunday nights,” he said, coming up behind me.

“The Sunday scaries.” I focused on the sponge.

“I always liked to have a full house on Sundays.” Cricket sipped from a mug of tea and gazed out the window at the sidewalk in front of our building, the wiry, shapeless bushes that always seemed to be on the verge of death. She’d threatened, a week or so ago, to pull them out and plant some new rhododendrons herself. “Made things better. Your father always liked to either be out on Sundays, or have big dinners in. Do you remember, Daisy?”

“I do,” I said, scrubbing a plate that didn’t need it.

“Stay for coffee, Atlas, will you?” Cricket asked.