“Hello, my angel,” Nora said, stepping onto her tiptoes for an air kiss. “How was the Met?” The question felt teasing, like she knew exactly what that night had led to. She gave my elbow a playful tweak—the universal mom-gesture for we’ll talk later. Then she let go to reach past me with both arms. “Oscar, our renegade!”

That was her kind way of saying he’d shown up massively late. As she craned her neck into the room behind her, I looked back to see Oscar peering past me with an expression as cheery as hers. No one could possibly tell how frantic he’d been hailing a taxi a few minutes ago.

“He has arrived!” Nora sing-called, steering us both inside.

I latched the door behind us, adjusting blink by blink to the fact that my house was full of people. Dad sat in the dining area, in lively debate with a small middle-aged man I didn’t recognize. Bill Rustig perched stiffly on the edge of the velvet armchair that filled the nook facing the stairwell, looking like he really was rusting, and assistants filled all other available corners, leaning on walls, typing on cell phones.

Nora ushered Oscar all the way back to the dining room, hand glued to his back as if he were her son. I bit back a laugh, imagining teensy ginger Nora producing tall, brown, elegant Oscar.

Nora can’t have kids, I remembered. Mom told me that.

I looked at my feet, chastened. Only a few days ago, Nora had pressed her hand to my back, guiding me through a party. And it was nice, wasn’t it? Comforting.

“This is our wonder boy,” she said proudly.

I leaned on the wall, desperately curious, despite all efforts not to be.

“Oscar, this is Simon Wilkerson of the New York Times.”

My feet slid. Holy crap.

“The New . . .” Oscar pivoted ninety degrees, instinctively fleeing—but Nora patted his back like she was calming an anxious pony. He extended a hand, recovering his height instantly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” said diminutive Simon Wilkerson of the New York Freaking Times, his accent hovering between British and American. “Shall we find someplace quiet to chat?”

Oscar looked over his shoulder at me, eyes glowing. I felt a twinge, wishing that we were still there, locked in that ambiguous moment, away from all this.

“There’s a great patisserie on Columbus,” Nora suggested, blinking around at everyone. “If you’ve got time for a bite—”

“L’Orangerie?” Oscar asked.

Nora clapped, beaming. “Look how much of a local he is already.”