After they were gone a general murmur of indignation ensued, and there was a good deal of coughing and lighting of cigarettes as Mr. Wilkie went on detailing much smaller bequests of money to the various arts foundations Julia had favored and fostered. The rest of it came to me, some in a trust I could not access till I was thirty, some in a lump sum that took my breath away. Julia divided her jewelry collection between me and Irene, though I got the diamond ring, the diamond choker and bracelet, the ruby pendant and earrings, the long rope of perfectly matched pearls. My mother, Florence, got Julia’s fur coats. An odd bequest, another poke in the eye, I assumed, for Florence’s having always been so nasty about my birthmark, especially since Florence has lived in the Bahamas since 1946.

Late this afternoon Florence and Walter will catch a flight back to the Bahamas, and I won’t have to see them again until I get married. Which I do not plan on doing. Maybe ever. When I told Julia I would never marry, she just laughed and said, “When you really do fall in love, Roxanne, I want to be there to see it. You will fall so hard, you’ll make Cyrano and the original Roxanne look like cynics.” Well, maybe, but honestly, why marry? Give me the lyrics of Ira Gershwin and the immortal lines from Casablanca any day. (I could recite the airport scene verbatim from the time I was twelve.) My parents, between them, have six marriages. Jonathan’s parents have eight, that we know of. Julia and Leon’s marriage endured, but it certainly wasn’t a thing of beauty. Marriage has little to recommend it, that I can see, other than a mortgage and the missionary position.

The driver took us all back to Summit Drive. Irene and Gordon got in their teal blue Cadillac and drove home. Florence, leaning on Walter’s arm, went up the broad staircase to their room. Leon and I looked at each other, alone together for the first time since I had returned from Northern California.

“I have something to tell you,” I said, taking a deep breath.

Behind his glasses, his eyes narrowed. “Not today, Roxanne. Whatever it is. Not today.”

“Today.”

His voice lowered to a growl. “It can wait.”

“It’s not about Denise Dell, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I am not afraid.”

“Then hear me out. It’s important.”

“I’ll join you in the library in twenty minutes.” He turned and left.