She said this with a great deal of affection. She sprang off the sill and over the desk, tossing her lit cigarette over her head, narrowly missing the rail and having it bounce back into her hair.

“We’re going for a walk,” she said. “It’s time for me to rediscover New York.”

It was a steamy, sticky morning, but this did not make Mrs. Amberson slow her pace at all. They headed west to Central Park, entering at the zoo gate, negotiating their way through the crush of double-wide strollers.

“I couldn’t help but overhear you and your brother talking outside last night,” she said. “It sounds like you’re both in a bit of a pickle.”

By “couldn’t help it,” Scarlett assumed that she meant, “I was hanging off my window ledge to make sure I caught every word.”

“It’ll work out,” Scarlett said. “Spencer’s really talented.”

“I like your attitude. But he’s not the only one with a problem, is he?”

She let that statement linger and took a deep drag of her cigarette, exhaling smoke for what seemed like ten minutes, like a machine about to explode.

“I lived in New York during a very important time,” she finally went on. “I thought I came back to New York to revive my acting career, but I’ve realized what I should really be doing is writing my story. You said you were a writer. That’s what made me think of it.”

“You’re going to write a book?” Scarlett asked. “Just like that?”

“That’s right. And it’s going to be amazing! That’s why we’re taking this little walk—to get the creative juices flowing.”

Well, something got flowing, but mostly it was sweat. At least for Scarlett. Though her face glistened a little, Mrs. Amberson didn’t sweat. It was unnatural. They marched down Sixth Avenue, pausing briefly at Radio City Music Hall.

“I was almost a Rockette,” she said. “But I didn’t make the height requirement. I was one inch too tall. One inch. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. I did eventually, but it took a while.”

She got out another cigarette, struck her match on the building face, and waved Scarlett on. For an hour, Mrs. Amberson pointed out places where her friends had lived, restaurants that were no longer there, former clubs, sites of muggings and random acts of violence.

“Where are we going?” Scarlett finally asked, as they turned on to Ninth Avenue.

“To my roots,” Mrs. Amberson said.

Five more blocks of marching. There were lots of apartment buildings here, but they weren’t as pristine as some of the others they had passed. They finally stopped in front of a narrow gold-brick building, only a few stories high.

“It wasn’t like this,” she said.

“What wasn’t like what?”

“I lived here,” she said. “In 1978. It was the most frightening building you could imagine. I sat up there, on the fire escape, and watched a man run down the street firing a gun. I saw people get mugged, stabbed, beaten. My fire escape was more exciting than the news. I used to have to lock myself in at night with six locks.”