She opened the shallow drawer in front of her and took out an emery board. She picked up my left hand as if it were an inanimate object, one of a pair of gloves. She filed and shaped the nails on that hand and then placed it on the table while she got up and crossed to the sink and filled a shallow plastic basin with warm soapy water. She sat down again and placed the fingers of my left hand in the water with my hand resting on the shallow lip of the reservoir. While the left hand soaked, she addressed the nails of my right hand, which she filed and shaped to match my left.

I wanted to initiate a conversation, but I wasn’t sure where to start. There’s something intimate about having someone tend to your body parts; haircuts, massages, bikini waxes, the latter no more than a rumor as far as I was concerned. When you’re in the hands of an expert, you give yourself up to the process. Since she seemed fully focused on my hands, I was free to study her.

She was blessed with a sulky prettiness—dark brows, long dark hair that she wore pulled up in a top-knot, caught in the jaws of a big plastic clip. A few loose strands framed her face. Her skin was flawless. She had a row of tiny gold rings in a line along one ear. The holes were pierced so closely together, it looked as if she’d taken a length of spiral binding and threaded it through her ear. She wore jeans and a cotton T-shirt with a deep V in front. Boobs.

When she finally spoke, she addressed her remarks to my fingertips. “I know who you are, so you don’t have to pussyfoot around.”

“I take it your brother called.”

“Are you kidding? The minute you were out the door. He was like totally pissed off, which I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

She removed my left hand from the soapy water and placed it on the towel in front of her, patting it dry like a lettuce leaf. She moved the basin over and set my right hand to soak while she squirted a milky solution across the cuticles of my left.

I said, “I’m sorry I upset him. That wasn’t my intent. I wish I’d done a better job of it.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s a drama queen. How’d you find out where I worked?”

“His landlord.”

“Big Rat. High school, he was a class ahead of Ethan’s. I once dated the guy if you can believe that.”

“Somehow I can’t picture it.”

“That makes two of us. I was sixteen and thought he was a man about town.” She lapsed into silence, intent on her work.

“I guess you know about your dad’s will,” I ventured.