“Coming!” I shouted at the door. Except for some mysterious new tattoos on her arm, Mia looked like a cast member from a retro ’50s television show, down to her red slippers.

I opened the door and welcomed her excited embrace. She hugged me, kissed my cheek and invited herself into my muggy apartment. She chattered away about the flight and about me not responding to emails. Finally she looked at me with her perfectly lined eyes and said, “You’re not ready! Get ready! We have to go. I can’t wait to see this house.”

I stepped into the restroom for a quick shower, leaving the door ajar so we could talk. I hopped into the shower and waited for the water to warm while Mia came and sat on the floor. She talked away as I soaped and showered. I only half-listened. I wanted to linger over my dream, but I was forced to push it to the back of my mind. I didn’t feel anxious this time; I knew that I would remember every detail, probably for the rest of my life.

I hated the idea of going to work with wet hair. It didn’t seem professional, but time was not on my side and I had sweated through the night. I couldn’t endure spending the day smelling sweaty hair, and what if anyone got close? Ashland came to mind, and I tried not to let my mind linger on his warm hands, his strong arms or his cologne.

Mia finally came to a stopping point in her monologue about her recent travels, which I would usually find fascinating. I was able to ask her a few questions. “So when did you get in?”

“Yesterday—I just told you that! I knew you were pretty busy, being the boss and all.” She was kidding, but her tone irked me a little. “Alright, now. Don’t start.” I reached for the loofah. “Where are you staying?”

“Oh, you know me. I’m couch-surfing. I’ll always be an anthropologist. I’ve got to check out the locals.” I heard her rummaging in my medicine cabinet.

“Mia, are you sure that’s safe? Do you know this person? Whose couch are you on? Where exactly are you staying?”

“Not far from here. I walked it, actually. Down off Royal Street. My host works at a nightclub down there, but he has fabulous reviews on the surfing site.”

“Is that really a good idea?” I wasn’t really surprised by anything Mia said or did. She was definitely her own person. She always had been since I’d known her. I simultaneously worried about and admired her.

“Oh, yeah, my host is pretty legit—and interesting. He works at Gabriella’s. It’s very exclusive, and it’s beautiful inside. They completely restored the building. Love that brick.”

“You’ve been inside?” I tried not to sound shocked.

“Stop worrying, Mom. Besides, Henri Devecheaux is absolutely fascinating, and he’s very spiritual. He also looks great in a dress!” She laughed wickedly.

“Well, if you change your mind…” There was an awkward silence, and then came the question I was expecting.