hand, and I can loan you pajamas that have never been worn."
Thalia says, "Dental floss? Retainer? Birth control pills?"
"Dental floss."
She strokes her chin as if there were a perplexing offer on the table. "I was half kidding. I'd love to stay. We modern girls carry our pharmaceuticals with us."
"Should you call your roommate so he won't worry?" he asks.
"I'll text him," she says. "Not that I want to set a precedent."
He leads her up the front stairway, not intending a full-fledged tour, but Thalia stops in the doorway of the master bedroom to admire what she calls its sleek good looks. She wanders in. He immediately apologizes for its size—the result of reconfiguring three second-story chambers into one bedroom, dressing room, and a bathroom that could accommodate two grand pianos.
She asks the color of the walls and he says, "I'm a little embarrassed to know the answer off the top of my head but I do: It's Coastal Fog."
"Do you just love it?" she enthuses. "I'd never leave. All you need is room service."
He tells her that once there was no turning back, he worried the suite was ostentatious and the whole property less salable.
"Can't wait to see the guest room."
He leads her to the end of the hall, to the only room untouched by renovations, a small space under the eaves that is white and crisp except for its faded antique quilt. "It's very sweet," says Thalia. "Even a little girly." She walks over to the bureau after spotting the three tarnished pieces—comb, brush, hand mirror—all alone on an eyelet bureau scarf. "Whose monograms?" she asks.
"My mother's."
" W? But not an A?"
" W.R. for Williebelle Randall, her maiden name."
"Is she still with us?"
"Afraid not. It'll be three years in May."
"Did I ever meet her?"
"At the wedding."
"Was she actually named Williebelle?"
"Awful, isn't it? Sounds like she grew up in Dogpatch. For some reason, she wore it well."
"And this was her room?"
He points with his chin: rocking chair, quilt, afghan.
"Was she living here when I used to visit?"
"No, much later. She lived with me for her last two years."
"Did she die in this actual bed?"
"No. She died at Columbia-Presbyterian in a lilac satin bed jacket. Pneumonia. She was ninety-one."
"Good genes," says Thalia.
"Not entirely. I must have mentioned since I'm mildly obsessed with the fact that my father had a fatal heart attack at fifty-five."
She points to the closet.
"Be my guest," says Henry.
She opens it and yelps, "Holy shit!"
"I know. It's shameful. I haven't thrown one thing away."
"Are you kidding? I think I just died and went to hand-me-down heaven." She is sliding hangers back and forth in sale-rack rapture. "So you'll have to excuse me so I can start trying things on. Is there a guest bathroom?"
"Of course, of course. New toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the linen closet. I'll leave the PJs on the edge of the tub"'
She has brought forth a navy blue dress that looks old-ladyish to Henry, and severe, but Thalia is swaying, an arm holding it against her waist in dancehall fashion. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asks.
Henry says, "I'm afraid not."
"I'm thinking that if I could borrow some of these—"
"Of course! Of course! You'd be doing me a favor."
She tosses the first dress onto the bed and brings forth one he actually remembers his mother wearing in Wilmington: black-and-white check, with buttons that have little rhinestone navels. "This one has to be from the nineteen fifties," says Thalia. "It's a shirtwaist. And ohmigod, it has a silk flower still pinned on it! This is too fabulous. Everything is."
"You'll probably want to take it to a dressmaker for ... what would be the right term? Updating?"
"No! There's so many. I'll find the right ones. But turn around. Don't look."
He faces the hallway and hears the rustling of clothes coming off and clothes going on. "Not yet," she says. Then in half a minute, "Okay, now. "
She is wearing the navy dress. It's
Thalia says, "Dental floss? Retainer? Birth control pills?"
"Dental floss."
She strokes her chin as if there were a perplexing offer on the table. "I was half kidding. I'd love to stay. We modern girls carry our pharmaceuticals with us."
"Should you call your roommate so he won't worry?" he asks.
"I'll text him," she says. "Not that I want to set a precedent."
He leads her up the front stairway, not intending a full-fledged tour, but Thalia stops in the doorway of the master bedroom to admire what she calls its sleek good looks. She wanders in. He immediately apologizes for its size—the result of reconfiguring three second-story chambers into one bedroom, dressing room, and a bathroom that could accommodate two grand pianos.
She asks the color of the walls and he says, "I'm a little embarrassed to know the answer off the top of my head but I do: It's Coastal Fog."
"Do you just love it?" she enthuses. "I'd never leave. All you need is room service."
He tells her that once there was no turning back, he worried the suite was ostentatious and the whole property less salable.
"Can't wait to see the guest room."
He leads her to the end of the hall, to the only room untouched by renovations, a small space under the eaves that is white and crisp except for its faded antique quilt. "It's very sweet," says Thalia. "Even a little girly." She walks over to the bureau after spotting the three tarnished pieces—comb, brush, hand mirror—all alone on an eyelet bureau scarf. "Whose monograms?" she asks.
"My mother's."
" W? But not an A?"
" W.R. for Williebelle Randall, her maiden name."
"Is she still with us?"
"Afraid not. It'll be three years in May."
"Did I ever meet her?"
"At the wedding."
"Was she actually named Williebelle?"
"Awful, isn't it? Sounds like she grew up in Dogpatch. For some reason, she wore it well."
"And this was her room?"
He points with his chin: rocking chair, quilt, afghan.
"Was she living here when I used to visit?"
"No, much later. She lived with me for her last two years."
"Did she die in this actual bed?"
"No. She died at Columbia-Presbyterian in a lilac satin bed jacket. Pneumonia. She was ninety-one."
"Good genes," says Thalia.
"Not entirely. I must have mentioned since I'm mildly obsessed with the fact that my father had a fatal heart attack at fifty-five."
She points to the closet.
"Be my guest," says Henry.
She opens it and yelps, "Holy shit!"
"I know. It's shameful. I haven't thrown one thing away."
"Are you kidding? I think I just died and went to hand-me-down heaven." She is sliding hangers back and forth in sale-rack rapture. "So you'll have to excuse me so I can start trying things on. Is there a guest bathroom?"
"Of course, of course. New toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the linen closet. I'll leave the PJs on the edge of the tub"'
She has brought forth a navy blue dress that looks old-ladyish to Henry, and severe, but Thalia is swaying, an arm holding it against her waist in dancehall fashion. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asks.
Henry says, "I'm afraid not."
"I'm thinking that if I could borrow some of these—"
"Of course! Of course! You'd be doing me a favor."
She tosses the first dress onto the bed and brings forth one he actually remembers his mother wearing in Wilmington: black-and-white check, with buttons that have little rhinestone navels. "This one has to be from the nineteen fifties," says Thalia. "It's a shirtwaist. And ohmigod, it has a silk flower still pinned on it! This is too fabulous. Everything is."
"You'll probably want to take it to a dressmaker for ... what would be the right term? Updating?"
"No! There's so many. I'll find the right ones. But turn around. Don't look."
He faces the hallway and hears the rustling of clothes coming off and clothes going on. "Not yet," she says. Then in half a minute, "Okay, now. "
She is wearing the navy dress. It's
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