The pavilion, the cluster of cabins, the theater and studio and Frank’s residence are dark shapes blocking the sparkle of Scottsdale and Phoenix beyond. “On our left is Wright’s studio,” she starts, waving at the building with her best Vanna White. “Construction began in 1937. He designed the Guggenheim in there.” Jason walks up to the casement windows and peers into the room lit by a lone desk lamp. He must still be drunk, but in his admiration he’s turned a reverent that seems nearly sober. “Notice how that whole wall up there, the ceiling, is just treated canvas. Makes for great diffuse natural light when the morning sun hits it. Less great in the weather. Water … resistant.” They start toward the next building, another angular shadow coming up like the crag of a mountain. Idiosyncratic modern, that’s what the tour ladies call it.

Her finger points to a low rock along the path, a red square inscribed into its face. “Notice the red tile. That’s his signature.” Jason squats to see it better: a big F, two L’s, a W that melts into something diagonal. This tile is a replica, the difference between it and the original discernable only to connoisseurs, but she doesn’t mention it.

“And over here we have the cabaret theater. Built later, in 1949, it has seating for fifty.” She tries the door but it’s locked. She never had the key to this one. “You’d have had to stoop through the entryway. That was a big principle for him, compression and release. Also, he was short.” She winks, he smiles. Her heart is thumping in her chest.

The wavering of the reflecting pond sends out blue light from around the corner. Jason surges ahead, eager to see it. “And the main house,” she says, anticipating the moment it will fill his field of vision. The Prow—that’s what Wright called the grand entrance, its angular pool and regal stairs. She can see Jason’s whole body lift at the sight. “The elevated first floor, just past that pool, was the Garden Room, where Wright received guests. His private library and bedroom were upstairs.”

That’s the last building; past it is a long, low wall separating the house from the terraced slope of hill. She steps toward the ledge, imagining the labor it took to quarry and cut these stones, to transport and arrange them just so. Jason follows, and they settle down atop the wall, their legs swinging over the edge. “When Frank Lloyd Wright built this compound, he planned the sightlines so that he couldn’t see anything but the open valley. No lights, no power lines, no development save for the road coming up to the house. Originally, he didn’t even want electricity up here.”