She showed me around, explaining the provenance of each unicorn. As she did so, her mood improved. I paused in front of a rainbow unicorn on a bookshelf, because I recognized it as a Disney souvenir. My parents had worked as janitors at Disney in Orlando, and I’d lived there for most of my childhood.

I envied her bedroom. Or maybe I envied the life that seemed to go with the bedroom. I’d seen my share of wealthy children’s bedrooms—rooms that were decorated so as to appear “magical,” with a few items purchased for that reason. But Amelia and Fritz were working on a much deeper level. A great deal of the magic in Natalie’s room came from the lighting. It was clear that the materials and colors of the drapes, rug, furniture, walls, ceiling were all chosen to work with the lighting—to reflect it or absorb it, depending on the desired effect—and create a true feeling of otherworldliness. This child’s room might as well have been an art installation, it was executed so well. To a layperson, it appeared personal, authentic, and unstudied. That was what made it so effective.

Turning the brass knobs on the Straubs’ extravagant oven, grasping the substantial pulls on the smooth sliding drawers, handling the kitchen faucet, all of these actions were gratifying to my senses.

Natalie sat at the counter and watched me. I found the lasagna in the fridge. “It looks delicious. Did your mom make it?”

“My mom?” Natalie laughed sarcastically. “No.”

I could tell Natalie enjoyed pointing out something her mother didn’t do well.

“Does your dad cook?” The kitchen tools were all coordinated, as were their dishes and their copper pots and pans. The items hadn’t been acquired over many years. It was clear that they’d been purchased all at once, and all other items had been disposed of. Amelia was obviously purposeful in deciding what she wanted to include in her life and what she wanted to exclude. I felt honored that I was being included at this time.

“Sometimes. We get some meals delivered.”

The Straubs probably catered to liberal, sensitive, and socially aware clients, the kind who named family as their priority and considered the kitchen the center of the home, whether anyone cooked or not. And, naturally, their own home would reflect that sensibility. I tried to envision a typical evening in their house and felt a tinge of irritation when I thought about the kitchen sitting unused.

Natalie swiveled back and forth on the kitchen stool.

“Piper seems nice,” I said.

She shrugged. “Yeah.”

“But she’s no hairstylist.”

I was relieved to see Natalie laugh. She appeared to relax a bit.

“Did you have fun with her?” I said.

I noticed a temporary tattoo on Natalie’s hand that was already disintegrating. It said, She Inspires.

I served her a plate of lasagna and sat on the stool next to her.