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Dedication

For Steve

CHAPTER ONE

I caught a glimpse of Amelia Straub through the front entry glass. Then the door swung open, and I stepped inside.

“Delta, darling!” Her large brown eyes landed on me with commitment. “I’m so grateful you made it here in this”—she gestured dramatically in the direction of the storm outside—“this tempest.”

We’d only just met, but the warmth in her voice was that of a close friend. She assumed the best about me. If she had a test, I’d passed it.

Behind her, a floating sculptural staircase, seemingly lit from above, with glass balustrades and bronze railings, ascended dramatically from the stair hall. A wide passage extended the length of the house so that even from the front door, I could see a sparkling kitchen in the back, and three sets of floor-to-ceiling glass-and-steel bifold doors that opened up to a deck and backyard. I’d found before-and-after pictures of the house online—a Greek Revival brownstone in Boerum Hill with an understated façade and an interior that Amelia and her husband, Fritz, had designed and transformed. But the photos hardly did it justice. Casting my eyes about the house was like viewing a series of paintings, one more striking than the next. In and of itself, the staircase was a work of art, and seen in the context of the home as a whole, it surpassed itself.

Amelia hung my coat in a pristine hall closet next to a sleek purple down Moncler. (I knew the price of that coat: more than two thousand.) Her long, slender arms danced gracefully around her body while she told me, in the most effusive terms, how much she admired my work.