“Follow me,” Anthony said, and walked to a mahogany table with plush gold chairs in the bar area, away from where most everyone else was seated. Michael walked several steps behind him. They sat down, practically hidden next to the base of the huge Christmas tree. The tree was as out of place as Michael felt; he was suddenly struck by the oddness of the grand piece of nature brought indoors. It was decorated with tasteful, classic ornaments, tinsel, and little lights that looked like old-fashioned gas lamps. There were gold foil gift-wrapped packages around the base of the tree. From a distance the gifts looked nice, but up close he could tell they were old, overused props. The foil was dented and there were small tears on the sides of the packages. Fake presents were the worst.

Anthony gestured at the waitress. “Bring us two red wines,” he said.

Michael was too stunned to speak, so he looked around the lobby of the fancy old hotel. He felt like he was in a cathedral. The trim was gilded gold, and the ceiling was vaulted, and painted with red-faced cherubs, blue skies, and clouds. Everything was old here, even the bartenders. They seemed wise, knowing, like they understood exactly what was going on with Anthony, who cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple like the stub of a branch that had broken off a tree. “I had business in Chicago. Thought I’d jog north for a bit to see you. And Ann.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“She’s upstairs. In my room.”

“What’s she doing in your room?”

“Resting.”

“She’s resting in your room?”

“She isn’t feeling well.”

“I want to see her.”

Anthony held up his hand: stop. The waitress set the wine in front of them and left. Anthony held his glass a few inches from his face, closed his eyes, let his jaw go slack as if he were sleeping, and inhaled. “This is how you smell wine,” he said. “Breathe in with both your nose and your mouth, taste and smell at the same time. Try it.” He passed the glass to Michael.

“I don’t care about wine.” Michael pushed it back. Ann was in this guy’s room!

“How old are you now?”

“Eighteen. What’s she doing in there? She should go home.” It was all he could do to avoid dumping it all over Anthony’s expensive cashmere sweater, and smashing the glass against the wall.

“So, she hasn’t told you.”

“Told me what?”

Anthony looked around. “You’ll keep this to yourself?”

“What gives?”

Anthony took another sip. He was stalling, or maybe he was nervous. It was hard to imagine that Anthony could feel that way. “This wine is from France. You should try to go to France someday. The Loire Valley is beautiful. The garden at Villandry—”

“I don’t want to talk about France.”