It wasn't just the transition from a rental building to a co-op that had changed the fortunes of Carrie's former home. In the pre-gentrification days when Rose had moved to West Eighty-third Street, this portion of the Upper West Side had been what the real estate woman referred to as a marginal neighborhood. Little Carrie had been warned not to ride a bike on the street—not that she owned one—because it could be ripped off. Her mother had been told to carry mugging money so she would always have something to hand over if she were attacked. The common wisdom of the street back then was to never frustrate a mugger.

Now there were chic little restaurants and shops all over the West Eighties. Nannies pushed babies in strollers that cost north of a thousand dollars on the sidewalks alongside affluent young singles walking trendy dogs.

Carrie had reached the top of the steps. She took a well-used key ring out of her pocketbook. It was time for her to let herself into the building, walk up the five flights of stairs, and sort through Rose's possessions. Her mother had intended to do that herself. “After I come back from the hospital, I'm going to put labels on everything so you'll know which charity gets what,” she'd whispered to Carrie on that last morning as they waited for the ambulance. But Rose hadn't come back from the hospital. Carrie tried to push away an image of her mother looking around the ugly little living room for the last time. “I've been so happy here,” she'd said.

Carrie put the key ring back into her pocket and sat on the nearly clean stoop. Wuss, said a voice inside her head. But she couldn't go inside. Not yet. She leaned on the side wall of the stoop and continued her mental meanderings.

AS SHE HAD told the librarian she would, the week after she'd discovered her mother's picture Carrie had gone back to Lincoln Center. And true to his word, the man had found the rest of the missing article from Fashionable Woman Today.

“Some idiot filed it under ‘Mary Martin,’ ” he said wearily. “I guess it's possible to confuse Martin and Manning—if you have the IQ of an artichoke.” He handed Carrie the story.

The written part wasn't very long, but there were ten pages of photos—all featuring a glamorous young Rose Manning. Carrie had looked at the images in front of her and tried to remember the time when the pictures would have been taken. The time before Bobby Manning had died.