I pulled my camera out and shot a few photos of Fritz. In order to take good photos of anyone, I need to believe in that person’s beauty. If I can’t see it, then the camera won’t see it. And no one else will be able to see it either. My subjects are always beautiful in my eyes. If they don’t start out that way, I force my brain into contortions in order to see it that way. In Fritz’s case, I didn’t have to talk myself into believing he was handsome. He had sandy hair, a strong jaw, and green eyes so intense that they blazed through his glasses.

At one moment, he appeared to be sharing some sensitive information. He lowered his voice and turned his body away from the room. He looked over his shoulder, repeatedly, to make sure no one was within earshot. I probably could have stood close enough to hear the conversation. For many people, I’m invisible, the same way a servant is. I’m performing a function, and they don’t take in the degree to which I see and hear what they say and do. That inconspicuousness usually benefits me. Years ago I felt slighted in these instances, but over time I’ve grown to appreciate them.

Several minutes later, when Fritz became aware of my presence, I turned and walked from the dramatically high-ceilinged great room, which extended the width of the house in back, through the media room and entered the library at the front of the house, where Amelia was seated in front of a roaring fire, holding court amid a group of four girls. She shone down on them like the sun. In my experience, eleven-year-old children are rarely drawn to the adults in the room. They are usually drawn to each other. But Amelia had such a powerful presence that the standard rules didn’t apply to her. It was practically impossible not to pay attention to her performance, partly because she seemed to expect that everyone would.

“Ingrid, we’re so proud of you.” Amelia spoke in a lilting voice. “Natalie told us about your tennis championship.”

Ingrid’s face colored and she giggled.

Amelia placed her fingers lightly on the child’s face and brushed the hair away from her eyes. “The semifinals? What an accomplishment.”

Objectively speaking, I was more attractive than Amelia was. I had larger breasts, a smaller waist, and fewer lines in my face. I was certainly younger, by ten years at least. Amelia had chiseled cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Overall, her features were a little sharp, but striking nonetheless, and she had remarkable magnetism—the kind of person to whom men and women alike gravitate.