The woman on Jules’s right turned to her. They had already been introduced, but, to her horror, Jules realized that she couldn’t remember anything about her. She looked to be in her late forties, possibly early fifties, with blonde hair a few shades more natural than Vivian’s.

“Did I hear that you have just come today from Philadelphia?” the woman asked with a German accent.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jules said. “I was visiting my family for the holidays.” Was being the operative word.

“I’ve never been to Philadelphia. Is it far from New York?”

“Er, no. A little over an hour by train.”

The woman pursed her lips. “One of your famous figures lived there, I think. What was his name…Franklin?”

Jules straightened with pride that absolutely would have labeled her a nerd back in school. “Ben Franklin, yes! He did a lot for the city. It’s a pretty cool place, actually, though people tend to ignore it in favor of New York. Lots of history.”

Oh no. She was rambling. The German woman was already starting to look bored. Jules fumbled for something more interesting. “Where are you from?”

“Berlin.”

“Oh, there’s a lot of history there too,” she said as her brain scrambled to catch up with her mouth. “Uh, the war, and Soviet occupation, and…so much.” Shut up, shut up!

Vivian cleared her throat. “Helga, how’s your son doing?”

Oh, thank God. Jules was saved. Helga Schumann was her name. And her husband Georg sat to Helga’s right. He was a big shot executive who owned tons of shares in Delton Wright, Koening’s main rival publishing house. Corporate scuttlebutt was that they’d tried to lure Vivian away from Koening several times over the years.

“Karl is wonderful,” Mrs. Schumann gushed, looking away from Jules as if she’d already forgotten all about her. “He turned sixteen last Wednesday. He’s at the top of his class. We are so proud.”

“How wonderful.” Vivian’s voice was bland.

“And you, my dear.” Mrs. Schumann returned her attention to Jules with a gleam of interest in her eyes. “You look so young! How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.” Was Mrs. Schumann about to take revenge for Jules’s conversational idiocy?

“A baby,” cooed Mrs. Schumann. “Isn’t she, Vivian?”

Vivian’s expression remained inscrutable as she sipped her water. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Hmm, I suppose not. But doesn’t it seem that as we get older, twenty-five seems younger and younger? I thought I was so wise at that age.” Mrs. Schumann shook her head. “But it does seem like that. Perhaps they are just taking longer to mature than we did.”

Jules didn’t love being talked about as if she weren’t there. “I don’t know, Mrs. Schumann. I think in some ways we’re having to grow up faster than our parents did.”

Mrs. Schumann’s eyes widened.