“This is all yours?” Barbara Lenz asked, looking around at the living room of the house in the West Village with astonishment.
Apparently it was. After stopping by the bank and ascertaining that yes, he had access to several checking and savings accounts that contained the FDIC assured maximum, and brokerage accounts which held much, much more, Randall had taken a taxi to the house that had once belonged to Alicia Van Horn.
It was much smaller than the prima’s grand brownstone, but still large and handsome, with a little over three thousand square feet, and four bedrooms and four bathrooms contained on four floors. He’d expected to find everything horribly out of date — after all, no one had lived there for more than forty years — and yet the furniture appeared to be antiques of about th
