Doran Baruch looked like a shadow. That was Emily’s first impression. He was a pale shadow. When he’d walked into the lodge, she’d been afraid that he’d tell everyone that she’d been asking all the old guests for interviews, that she’d been tracking everyone down, intruding on their privacy and all that, and so she’d wished for silence. But he’d looked right through her searching for Sonja. He still hadn’t so much as looked in her direction. Now Emily wished for anything—a wink, a nod, any acknowledgement at all.
“Lovie,” said Auntie Sonja, handing her a glass of wine, “I want you to meet our guest, Mr. Baruch.”
“Doran,” he said, “please.” He was so tall that he seemed to be folded into the room, the goy with the Jewish last name, the miraculous man. Emily couldn’t see his face very well
