“It’s on me,” Mrs. Amberson said. “Get what you like, Marlene. You, too, O’Hara.”

The menu was surprisingly heavy, bound in very thick pieces of leather. The food on it was fairly normal—just some sandwiches and snacks—all stupidly expensive, as she had figured. This was odd…being taken out to a place like this for lunch, by a guest, no less. She was supposed to be doing things for Mrs. Amberson, not the other way around. She quickly picked the cheapest thing and said water was fine. Marlene had no such compunctions. She ordered a plate of the house special miniburgers and a nonalcoholic pina colada with extra cherries.

“A girl who knows what she wants,” Mrs. Amberson said.

“Can I go make a call while it’s coming?” she asked.

Oh, yes. The fifteen-year-old rule did not apply to Marlene. She’d had her cell phone for years. The excuse was that she needed it to call home when she was in the hospital, which was a pretty good excuse, but still.

“Go right ahead,” Mrs. Amberson said. “I have some things to discuss with your sister.”

Marlene skulked over to an empty sofa on the other side of the room, far from them.

“I’m sorry,” Scarlett said. “She’s just a little…”

“You are an interesting bunch,” Mrs. Amberson cut in. “And you don’t have to apologize. I hope you don’t mind that we’re meeting at another hotel. No offense to yours, but this one has a pedigree and a fabulous bar.”

“You said this was your first time in New York in a while?” Scarlett asked, out of a sense of obligation.

Mrs. Amberson smiled wryly. She reached for her cigarette case, then seemed to remember that she wasn’t permitted to smoke inside. She dropped it back into her purse with disappointment.

“I used to live here,” she said, “some time ago. Back during the glam and the disco and the punk. But I was mostly a Broadway girl.”

“Broadway?” Scarlett repeated. “You should talk to my brother. He’s an actor. He’s trying to get on Broadway.”

“Sweetheart,” Mrs. Amberson said, “a quarter of the people in this town are trying to get on Broadway, another quarter have been.”

It wasn’t really clear what Scarlett was supposed to take from that remark—if it was meant to be reassuring, or insulting, or purely informational. Mrs. Amberson had a very disconcerting habit of making everything sound semi-insulting.

“School’s out, right? So, what do you do? Do you have some kind of…camp or something?”

“No,” Scarlett said. “Just work.”

“Work?” she laughed. “Your family owns a hotel. And you’re wearing a Dior dress, I might point out.”

“The dress is my sister’s,” Scarlett said, unable to hide her annoyance. “It was a gift. We are the opposite of rich.”

As soon as she said it, Scarlett bit her lip. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to advertise to the new guest that they weren’t exactly the most successful family in the city. But Mrs. Amberson looked intrigued. She sat back and stirred her Bloody Mary until her celery cracked in half where she had chomped into it.