We walked back downstairs. The string quartet had resumed playing. Nicholas introduced me to a few more people, and then we went back and sat down next to the musicians.

As I looked around the ornately furnished room, I wondered what Nicholas’s house must be like. “Where do you live?” I asked.

“Not far from here, actually.” He suddenly smiled. “Would you like to see my house?”

“Yes.”

His smile turned to a conspicuous grin.

“What?” I asked.

“When I first offered the contract you asked if this ended up back at my place. I bet you didn’t think you’d be asking me to go.”

I grinned back. “A lot has changed since then,” I said.

Nicholas lived less than ten minutes away. His home was new, a Cape Cod–style house with shutters and a large front porch. He pulled his car into the garage. The door from the garage opened into the kitchen, where he flipped on the lights. The room was bright and immaculate, with not even a dish in the sink.

“This is really cute,” I said.

“Wasn’t really going for cute,” he replied.

“It’s big,” I said.

“For one person it is.”

“It’s big for a lot of people,” I said.

“Hopefully I won’t always be living here alone,” he replied.

There were pictures on the wall. “Is this your family?” I asked.

He nodded.

“This is you with the long hair?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How old were you?”

He leaned forward for a closer look. “I think I was fifteen in that one.” In none of the pictures was Nicholas older than fifteen or sixteen.

“These are your parents?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Have they ever been here?”

“No. My mother died before I built the home. My father wouldn’t come.”

“You know, you might be the cleanest bachelor in the country. You must have a cleaner.”

“Rosa,” he said. “She comes once a week. But actually, I’m pretty OCD. I don’t like a messy house.”

“I would drive you crazy.”

I looked over a long row of porcelain figurines he had displayed on a shelf. He had three female nudes with angel wings, a larger piece of a mother breast-feeding her baby, and a glossy figurine of Don Quixote sitting in a chair holding an open book on his lap and a sword in his hand. “Tell me about these,” I said.

“I collect Lladró. I just think they’re beautiful. There’s one piece I’m coveting, but I haven’t gotten up the nerve to buy it yet. It’s Cinderella in her pumpkin carriage with her horses and groomsmen. It’s more than thirty thousand dollars.”

“Wow,” I said. “I can’t imagine spending that much on art. Do you think you’ll buy it?”

“I’ll buy it someday,” he said.

“I hope you let me see it when you do.”

“Of course. You like Cinderella?”