She stared at the portrait of herself. “I felt so grown-up when it was time to have this painted. I guess I had some old-fashioned idea that Dad and I would spend a few weeks posing for the artist . . . it turns out we weren’t even in the same room. He came and took our photos. It felt like cheating.”

“But it’s a nice painting anyway,” I said.

“Oh yes,” she said, leaning a little closer. “I’ve always liked it. Dad and I were quite a team.”

“It was just the two of you?” I asked.

My question hung in the air.

“Yes,” she said. “My mother had passed away years before.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”

She walked back to the previous picture. “Grandfather and Grandmother—Matthew and Edna. My grandfather passed in a car accident when I was a baby. It was very sad for my father.”

Matthew and Edna stood with two young children, a boy and a girl. The whole family looked serious, like they knew what was coming.

“This is the one who cried at the wedding?” I asked.

Laura laughed, a sweet, surprised laugh. “I mentioned that? Yes, Edna, bless her heart. This painting makes her look well-behaved, but she was a terror. And here are David and Maude—although her given name was Agatha, can you imagine deciding to go by Maude?—my great-grandparents. I don’t know that she ever forgave herself for having seven girls and only one boy. The kings of Europe couldn’t have been less interested in turning their empires over to a female. And she only married into the family! She came from some high-society old-money family who ran out of money. Thank God Matthew came along at last.”

At first I thought she was joking, but there was almost a little too much sincerity in her voice.

“And over here is the designer of the gardens.”

“The Widow Copeland?” I asked.

“Yes, very astute! Loretta Copeland. She married Jerahmeel’s oldest son, Abel. He passed away quite young—probably right around when this painting was finished. Loretta took over and ruled the house and the railroad with an iron fist until my great-grandfather came of age. Then she managed the house for him, hand-picked Maude to be his wife, and conveniently dropped dead three days after my grandfather was born.”

“Wow,” I said.

Laura’s gaze swept over the wall. “It seems so impressive . . . until you look at all of them as individual people. They were all flawed. None of them was very much fun, I’m afraid. I guess I’m not, either.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” I said.

“I have,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to turn hard, does it? Look at you. Think what you’ve lost, and you still seem so . . .”

Her voice sank to nothing. The tone had turned sad.