There’s silence and she knocks again, louder this time, using the heel of her hand. And finally she hears shuffling, a grunt as a jammed doorknob is turned. And then she is standing in front of a tall, slim man, checkered shirt tucked into slacks, glasses perched at the end of his nose. He looks far too old to have a daughter so young. It’s bizarre to see him in real life, as if he’s walked out of the jacket flap of one of his novels. He’s narrower than his picture, the real world diminishing him into a regular middle-aged man.

“You must be Annie,” he says, and sticks out his hand. His fingernails are finely cut, his cuticles scrubbed, like a woman’s. She takes it, after a pregnant pause.

“Yes, yes I am.” She looks up into his milky blue eyes and he smiles nonchalantly, like she could be anyone. But she’s used to that.

“I’m Mr. Keller, as you may have gathered. Come on in. You can wait in the living room and I’ll get my wife.” The front hall is bigger than her childhood home, empty except for one round, gleaming table showcasing a bouquet of sky-blue hydrangeas in an enormous cut-glass vase. The walls are lacquered in a deeper shade of the same blue, and the old parquet floor is so polished Annie can practically see her reflection in the planks. It’s so quiet, she finds herself tiptoeing, her soles flexing, so as not to make a sound.

He leads her to a room filled with color, orange couches, blue vases on the fireplace mantel. Lemony sunlight glows on the dark, reflective end tables, and the back wall is lined with books organized by color. Silver-framed photos on one table show the Kellers with some famous people—the mayor of New York City and others Annie isn’t sure she recognizes. The Sony Trinitron TV is half-concealed inside a massive cabinet stenciled with a curling pattern of vines and grape clusters.

She’s never seen anything like it, her mouth parting in awe as she imbibes the whole room. Who knew you could make a home so beautiful?

The man stands awkwardly by the entrance, staring at her staring. “I’m glad we have somebody around to admire it. We haven’t had guests yet.” He smiles at her and this time it’s genuine, his eyes crinkling. She smiles shyly back.

“Belle, the nanny’s here,” he calls into the cavernous space. When no one comes, he turns to Annie and holds up a finger. “One sec. Make yourself comfortable.” She perches herself on the edge of the sofa, placing her hands on her knees, prim and proper like she imagines you’re supposed to do in houses like this.

And then a woman comes in, her jeans dirty, peeling off gardening gloves and tossing them on a pristine mirrored table. It makes Annie wince.