The marble floor was white tile with a pattern of black insets; probably new but mimicking the original. I will swear to you that the air smelled like vanilla ice cream. I checked the directory and located the office number for Burke Benjamin, 201, which I assumed was on the second level. An ancient-looking cage elevator with polished brass doors was still in operation. I entered, slid the retractable metal gate shut, pressed the brass 2 button, and went up. My ascent was slow and curiously entertaining as the facing walls, just outside the cage, had been plastered with a collage of vintage Spring Fresh posters and circulars.

When I stepped off the elevator on the second floor, the receptionist looked up and smiled pleasantly. She was a woman in her fifties with unrepentantly gray hair and a gray sweater-dress that looked handknit. Far from washing the color from her complexion, the overall palette generated a vibrant aura, which was both striking and soft.

The name placard on the desk indicated that the receptionist was Hester Maddox. “I’m Hester. You must be Kinsey.”

“I am. Nice meeting you,” I replied as we shook hands across her desk.

Hester glanced at the old-fashioned wall clock. “Ms. Benjamin should be here shortly. Why don’t you have a seat? Can I get you anything? Water or coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I settled on a camelback sofa upholstered in a caramel velvet that looked good enough to lick. On the small brass-and-glass coffee table in front of me there were copies of Forbes magazine, the ABA Journal, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, five law-related publications, and three issues of People magazine, a guilty pleasure of mine. I skipped the issue devoted to Mike Tyson’s latest difficulties and bypassed the lengthy coverage on caring for aging parents and the painful decisions attendant thereon. Given my orphan status, the problem wasn’t one I’d have to face. Henry and his sibs might be octogenarians and nonagenarians, but they had always been self-sufficient, and if one of them suffered a medical malfunction, the others would rally with unfailing support.

I picked up the October 10, 1988, issue and turned to the story about Jersey Girl Patti Scialfa replacing actress Julianne Phillips in Bruce Springsteen’s heart. The article detailed the development of the romance, which surfaced a scant three years after Springsteen and Julianne Phillips were married. The story moved from Patti Scialfa’s early career to her current state of bliss and ended with gushings of the “they were clearly meant for each other” variety. Oh yeah, right. Like that marriage would last.