Eleanor Ashworth’s foundation occupied the top two floors of a limestone building in the West Fifties, the kind of building that had been there since before Nathaniel’s father was born and intended to be there long after everyone in this story was gone.
Claire went alone. This had been the argument that had taken three days to win, Nathaniel insisting he would come, Claire explaining with patient precision why his presence would guarantee that Eleanor would say nothing real.
She sat in a reception area that smelled like old money and fresh flowers and waited, her sketchbook in her bag because she always had it, her hands steady in her lap because she had decided on the walk over that she would not let this woman see her nervous.
Eleanor came out herself to collect her. This was the firs
