Scarlett had had this exact thought many times herself, but she didn’t really like hearing this stranger saying it out loud. Nor did she like strangers hanging over her, practically staring down her cleavage. But it wasn’t the cleavage, or lack thereof, that the woman seemed most interested in.

“That’s Dior, isn’t it?” she asked, pinching the strap and feeling the material.

The woman was close enough for Scarlett to smell—she carried a faint fragrance of incense, and a light perfume that had an expensive feel inside of Scarlett’s nose.

“Yes,” Scarlett admitted.

The woman leaned over farther and stared at the picture again.

“Interesting group,” she said. “All the girls are blonde, like your dad. And your brother is brunette, like your mother. Good-looking guy, your brother. How old is he?”

“In the picture or now?” Scarlett asked.

“I’m only interested in now,” the woman said with a smile.

“Nineteen.”

“Older sister as well? She’s stunning. How old is she?”

“Eighteen.”

Her interest seemed to end with Spencer and Lola. She tapped a fingernail against her front teeth.

“It’s not exactly what I pictured,” she said, turning to look around the lobby.

Scarlett didn’t know what to say. The hotel was what it was. Not the best. Far from the worst.

Her mother entered from the kitchen, bearing a white mug on a saucer, with a tiny pile of orange rind clustered around it. The woman eagerly accepted this, pinching up all of the orange and dropping it into the cup.

“Four shots of espresso,” her mother said.

The woman nodded and sucked this back like it was nothing at all.

“This is my daughter Scarlett,” her mother explained.

“We’ve met,” the woman said. “Nice name. And nice dress. I’m more of a Vivienne Westwood woman myself. But really, I like small, up-and-coming designers, right out of design school. You get all the freshest ideas for a song.”

Scarlett’s mother’s face had slipped into that half-paralyzed mask it got when a seriously paying customer was around.

“This is Mrs. Amberson,” she said to Scarlett. “She’ll be here all summer.”

“All summer?” Scarlett repeated.

“All summer,” Mrs. Amberson said.

“All summer,” her mother said again. “In the Empire Suite.”

“The Empire Suite?” Scarlett said.

“This is adorable,” Mrs. Amberson cut in. “Do you often sing in rounds? Makes sense. You look a bit like the Von Trapps.”

It took Scarlett a minute to realize that she was talking about The Sound of Music. Actually, yes. Maybe they were a little Von Trapp like. Many, blonde, repetitive. Also, running for the hills sounded like a pretty good plan.

“Will your husband be joining you at some point?” her mom asked, sitting back down in front of the computer.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Amberson said. “My husband is more of a concept than a person.”

She let that mysterious sentence linger in the air for a moment.

“Oh…fine,” Scarlett’s mom replied. “Just checking. And just so you know, we have a policy here at the Hopewell. As a family, we personally take care of some of the rooms.”