There were details about him that I had not allowed myself to notice before. Like that he had sensual hands, square-trimmed nails, no hairy fingers—strong hands, with veins and tendons standing out when he flexed his muscles. I’d never been attracted to a man’s hands before. Thank God, Strena glided down the stairs with her models before anyone could notice my freakish obsession moment.

Vivian waved goodbye, then left.

Monique offered a shy smile. “Could I change my mind and stay? I’ve been thinking about starting a modeling agency for plus-size models and models of color. If I do it, I’m going to have to pitch, but I don’t know how. I want to see how you do it. Would you mind?”

“The more, the merrier. Just remember I’ve never done this before either.”

Bram Sr. and Sergei immediately stood to offer the ladies their armchairs.

Bram put Lai Fa down, then he got up too. “I’ll grab the barstools from the kitchen.”

I made the introductions. Everyone picked up their handouts, while Lai Fa pecked around on the floor for crumbs of bagels past.

When Bram returned with the barstools, he asked, “How is Jo Bonger?”

“Down but not out. She had grit.”

“Any luck finding a Dutch translator?”

Strena answered. “I speak Dutch.” At my surprised look, she rolled her eyes. “Born and raised in Aruba. Aruba is part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands?”

“The Dutch have a king?”

“Willem-Alexander. Christ. Americans.”

“Since I can’t possibly get any more embarrassed now, I’m going to just plunge into my business presentation.” I fixed a bright smile onto my face. “Thank you for coming.”

Then I told my audience about how Ludington’s had begun. How we targeted a niche market. How we built our current client list. I asked them to open their handouts and refer to the appropriate pages.

I finished with “Any questions?”

Bram Sr. went first. “Is the business named after Sybil Ludington?”

“Yes. Her story is a patriotic story, which appeals to our politician clients. Also, she symbolizes that you don’t have to be big and important to do good work. Sybil was sixteen at the time of Paul Revere’s ride. Paul Revere rode twelve miles. Sybil rode forty, through dark, hostile woods, fought off a highwayman, and alerted troops that the British were coming.”

Violet had told me about her. I’d written a paper on Sybil in middle school, with all my youthful outrage that Revere was still celebrated while she’d been forgotten. I used to daydream about being Sybil, riding through the night like a Valkyrie.

Bram Sr. had another question. I answered that too. And then I answered another.

“I think we’ll be here for a while.” Sergei pulled out his cell phone. “How about dinner? A friend of mine has a Russian restaurant a few blocks over.”