“Aren’t they pretty?” Barbara has stopped at the end of the hall and turned back, catching Rose studying one.

“They are,” Rose says. “I love her detail and the vibrancy of the colors.”

“Yeah,” Barbara says. “I thought they went real well with the new carpet.”

Rose winces internally, though they do go nicely with the carpet.

“This has all got to be repainted.” Barbara waves at the walls and the arched ceiling eleven or more feet overhead. That’s when Rose notices the prints are shadowed by a slight discoloration where larger pictures formerly hung.

“New artwork?” Rose asks.

“There used to be all these pictures of the inside of caves that Chuck took. Chuck was a good photographer. They made me sad—that and all dark wood flooring. Coming in the front door was like going underground. I like it light and airy.”

“You’ve done a beautiful job transforming it,” Rose comments.

“It’s gettin’ there.” Barbara begins walking again, Mel and Rose trailing in her wake. Behind them Rose hears the door whump shut, the sound like an air lock sealing.

The hall spills out into an enormous sunken living room that was built when formal rooms were in vogue. Now it is a cross between a great room and an entertainment center. The grand old fireplace, with its carved wooden mantel, serves as a base for a television easily seventy-five inches wide. On the screen, black football players are standing around while white men talk to each other. Rose wonders if it is Sunday. Or if football is all day, every day now.

“Have a seat,” Barbara says. The couch yawns white and sleek and enormous. Sitting on it is rather like being swallowed by Moby-Dick. The TV whines nasally in sports-speak. “Can I get you anything? A beer or a pop?”

“A beer would be great,” Rose says. It is ten thirty in the morning, and, on the whole, Rose isn’t a day drinker—or a beer drinker—but this seems like a brewski kind of moment.

“Coke okay for you?” Barbara asks Mel.

“Yes. Thank you,” Mel says politely.

“Diet or regular?”

“Regular,” Mel says.

“You go, girl.” Barbara smiles at Mel, then leaves the room.

The doorman has followed them in. He sits in a white leather-covered chair wide enough that Mel and Rose could have sat side by side never touching. Rose and Mel perch on Moby’s lower lip, both on their best behavior. The roses are dropped to the floor like a cast-off newspaper.

“So your husband and Chuck were pals back in the day,” he says. “Oh. Sorry.” He stands and crosses the three yards of carpeting, hand outstretched. “I’m Derek, Barb’s big brother. Helping her get squared away.” He shakes first Rose’s hand, then Mel’s. His grip is dry and warm, but too firm for delicate bones.