“Brian’s taking me on a tour of the city,” Desmond said. “The low points of all the architectural highlights.”

She turned her mouth down slightly. “Thank you for not inviting me,” she said. “If I was forced to read one more plaque about the historical significance of a bronze duck, I’d lose my mind.”

“You’d better watch out,” Desmond said. “You’re next on the list; he gives the tour to all newcomers.”

“In that case, I’m off the hook. Brian and I are yesterday’s news.” A gust of wind cut down the street and ruffled her gray cashmere sweater. “Right, Brian?”

“I know better than to disagree with you, Rosemary.”

“Yes, you do. That’s because I trained you when you were young.” Brian was still young, Desmond decided, possibly seven or more years younger than his sister. Rosemary lifted a black leather briefcase she had in her right hand. Unlike everything else about her, this was untidy; there was a clump of frayed newspapers and Xerox sheets sticking out of the top and the plastic handle of a portable umbrella. “Student papers,” she said. “A ream of scintillating analyses of poetry in America. Compare and contrast Wallace Stevens and . . . I forget who else. I was supposed to ‘correct’ them weeks ago. I’m headed over to one of Boston’s many romantic little boîtes where I’ll plant myself at a corner table until I’ve read every page.”

“Do you have to grade them?” Desmond asked.

“They’re interested in psychoanalysis, not grades. I figure out exactly what everyone wants to hear about themselves, then I tell them the opposite. They love it.”

“I’ll have to try it with my students.”

“It wouldn’t work for you. You’ve crafted a nice-guy persona for yourself, so you have to give them what they want. Otherwise, they’d storm the dean’s office and demand your resignation. I’m considered a cold, spiteful bitch, so they want to be scolded and dominated by me. They’d be happiest if I came to class in spike heels and black leather pants.”

“I’m surprised you don’t,” Brian said.

“The pants are at the cleaner. Well, I’d invite you to join me for a drink, but it looks to me as if you two have a few more sites to see.”

They said their goodbyes, but as they were turning to leave, Rosemary put her hand on Desmond’s arm and told him that she’d read his Lewis Westerly biography and had found it fascinating. Desmond was stunned, both by the fact that she’d read the book and by the tone of sincerity in her voice, a complete shift from her usual ironic sniping. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for reading it.”