Her eyes move across everything, taking in the scale of it, the details. Gold leaf wallpaper. Stained-glass lampshades. Carpet thick enough to swallow every footstep.
“It’s a lot,” she says finally.
That’s one way to put it.
“There’s a housekeeper and a butler. They come early to set everything up,” I explain as we walk from that room into the main hall, at the base of the giant curved staircase that leads to the upper floors. “They’re usually gone before I wake up.”
I pause, realizing she’s not behind me anymore. A step back reveals Becky, her eyes staring at the massive stained glass that makes up the ceiling three stories above us. It shows a garden of red roses, thousands of them, tumbling and intertwining, all bound together with thorn-tipped vines.
“Whoa,” she says in an awed whisper, head tilted back, again showing off that long, slender neck.
“Come along,” I say, walking ahead so I don’t linger on the view.
I give her the tour. Kitchen. Family room. Dining room. The guest bedroom where she’ll sleep. It’s right next to mine, also a guest bedroom. I don’t sleep in my boyhood room here, and I’llneversleep in the master bedroom.
That was my father’s.
Becky follows without questioning, her eyes everywhere.
Her favorite is the ballroom. She gasps when I fling its double doors wide.
Inlaid floors. High ceilings. Windows that run nearly the full length of the walls, letting in the last of the afternoon light. It spills across the wood in long, pale lines, catching dust that hangs in the air. Chandeliers are strung high over our heads. If I turned them on, they’d glitter, but I don’t. I prefer this room without them, muted shadows and softened corners. Priceless statues sit in alcoves, frozen in place.
Becky steps past me.
Her shoes tap against the floor as she walks further in, turning slowly.
“Oh my God…”
Her voice echoes. Everything does in here.
I stay where I am, standing inside the doorway, watching her.
She’s smaller in this room.
Not diminished.
Just…framed.
Like she belongs in it.
She spins in a circle, arms lifting from her sides as if she can’t help it.
“This is insane,” she says, laughing softly. “Do you actually use this?”
“No.”
She glances back at me, her brow lifting.
“Not even for parties?”
“Not anymore.”
I don’t elaborate. Don’t tell her about the string quartets that used to play in the corner or how I used to sneak down when my father threw galas here. How I’d watch through the cracked door as the men and women danced, ballgowns sweeping the floor.
How I wished I could be one of them.
She studies me, and I think she’ll ask more, but she lets it go. Instead, she steps further into the center of the room.
