“Since Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio was in that movie, your hair seems to strike people as fashionable rather than unmanageable. And,” she went on in an unprecedented burst of candor, “I’ve always envied you your boobs.”

I grinned at her. “We don’t look like mother and daughter, do we?”

“You look like my mother, not me. She was an amazing woman.”

My mother had stunned me twice in one morning. Talking about the past was something she just didn’t do. She lived in the here and now.

“Are you feeling okay?” I asked nervously.

“Yes, fine. I just noticed a little more gray this morning.”

“We’ll talk later. I’d better get going.”

“Goodness, yes! Get over there!” Mother had looked at her watch again.

Luckily I’d met Mother at the bank instead of going with her from the office, so I had my own car. I got to the Anderton mansion in plenty of time to park to one side so my practical little car wouldn’t mar the view from the curb. Two months ago, when old Mr. Anderton had died, Mandy Anderton Morley (his sole heir) had flown in from Los Angeles for the funeral, put the house on the market the next day, and flown back out to her rich husband after clearing her father’s clothes out of the master bedroom and emptying all the drawers into boxes that she had shipped to her home. All the furniture was still in place, and Mandy had indicated to my mother she would negotiate with the buyers if they wanted some or all of the furnishings. Mandy had never been a sentimental person.

So when I unlocked the double front doors and reached in to turn on the lights in the cold, stale two-story foyer, the house looked eerily as it had when I was a child. I left the front doors open to let in some fresh air and stood just inside, looking up at the chandelier that had so awed me when I was eleven. I was sure the carpet had been replaced since then, but it seemed the same creamy color that had made me terribly conscious of any dust on my shoes.