As the lift began its ascent, Simon answered Lucy’s quizzical expression with a boyish grin and a few intriguing details. “He comes from the Far West—Montana, I think—and let’s say he’s my idea of what a mountain man would be, if such people were real. He doesn’t give a damn for appearances, used to be a serial marrier. Now he’s more of a monk, but I know he still loves women. I’ve no idea how old he is; he’s looked the same for ten years.”

Lucy thought Simon was constructing an impossible persona for anyone to fill: John Wayne, she joked to herself, with a strangely female anima. She simply smiled at the idea and listened to him talk about a man he clearly liked, with an eye for a photograph and a story.

“Whatever else he may be,” Simon continued across the noise of the creaking contraption, sputtering to the final stage of its destination, “he knows everyone, so he’s made a fortune for himself and the people he represents along the way. He bought this building for cash before anyone thought of lofts.”

The noise of the lift and Simon’s commentary ended in unison, and a man with a broad, clear forehead and intelligent gray eyes opened the gate, immediately extending a hand toward Lucy. “Roland Brown.” He shook her hand warmly. “Really sorry about yesterday. I was caught in Boston.” He turned to Simon and gave him a big hug. “Bad about Will. Come on in, and tell me what you know.”

Lucy was struck by his presence. He was six foot three at least, a big man with a shining ponytail; but he moved with the grace of a ballet dancer across the landing, through a reinforced door that led to the main living space. Lucy now understood what a New York loft apartment could be—a living room, as long as half a city block, with a line of windows on three sides looking out across the river to the west; uptown to the George Washington Bridge; and downtown to the stark space where the twin towers of the World Trade Center once stood. She drank in the whole vision, noticed the sanded, broad plankwood floor, black and white Italian furniture, open-plan kitchen twice the size of Alex’s. The remaining wall was lined with bookcases; and there were photographs—framed and unframed—everywhere, scattered over a dining table, the walls, the floor.