Like queens on three high-backed cane chairs, they perched and possessed the shade beneath the front portico held aloft by four giant Corinthian columns, their pastel afternoon dresses vivid against the pure white house.
Alva Vanderbilt sat in the center, for she was the core of them.
As I approached, my steps growing shorter the closer I crept, I remembered Mother's drilling of how, and how not, to address Mamie Fish. She would oust anyone who said, “pleased to meet you,” instead of “how do you do,” “pardon me” instead of “I beg your pardon,” or “I presume” instead of “I suppose.” Those who faltered would never step a foot near Crossways again.
I was only a few of those steps away from them when I heard her voice—her low, raspy sort of voice—speak my name. It was a closed door that mag
