We confined ourselves to chitchat until Rosie returned with the wine in a dusty bottle with an actual cork. For me, she’s quick with a screw-top jug and wine so close to vinegar you could use it to clean windows. The wine she poured for Tasha was like drinking elixir from an orchard—soft, subtle, with a fragrance of apples, pears, and honey.

We let Rosie order for us, which she’d have done anyway. It was better to give her permission to be bossy and thus retain a modicum of control. She was otherwise a food dominatrix. The carp with sour cream turned out to be lovely. Maybe I’d have dinner here with Tasha more often.

As is the case every time we meet, I couldn’t help making a secret study of her. She looks not the way I look, but the way I think I look when I’m at my best. We have the same square teeth, the same nose, though mine has suffered a few indignities where hers has survived in its original state. My eyes are hazel where hers are dark brown, but the shape is the same. I could tell she plucked her eyebrows, and I envied her both the skill and the courage. Sometimes I try, usually closing my eyes while doing so in hopes it won’t hurt. Inevitably, I pull out the wrong hair, which makes my brows look patchy and incomplete. Then I have to use eyebrow pencil to fill in the blanks, which gives me the fierce demeanor of a Kabuki.

When we’d finished our meal and Rosie had removed the plates, Tasha reached into her tote and pulled out a bulky manila envelope. I expected her to hand it across the table to me, but she held it against her chest.

“I’ve been sorting and cataloging Grandfather Kinsey’s papers for the historical preservation group that raised the money to move the house. Grand asked me to take charge because his files are so voluminous and so disorganized. She’s never had the patience to tackle them herself. She wants me to put together a chronological account of the house—when it was built, the architect, the plans, and that sort of thing. Grandfather Kinsey kept everything—and I mean everything—so with a bit of digging I’ve been able to come up with summaries of his meetings with the builder, various construction proposals, invoices and receipts documenting the project from beginning to end. In the midst of it, I came across some letters that by rights belong to Grand. I haven’t told her I found them, because there’s no way to predict what she’d do with them. Destroy them, most likely. I thought you should see them first.”

“Well, you’ve got my attention.”

“I hope so,” she said.