Fifty-two

Addy’s home was an imposing three-story structure that crowned the crest of a gentle hill overlooking the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. The exclusive location gave her rear windows a view of the East River and the towering skyline of Lower Manhattan.

Esther and I stood a moment, gawking up at the urban mansion. Then together we climbed the steep flight of stone stairs to the main door.

A maid greeted us and led us into a pristine white foyer with a ceiling high enough to create an echo all the way up to the skylight three floors above. There were French Provincial chairs flanking a console table, towering potted palms, ornate vases, and a wide curved staircase with gilded rails that I whispered looked worthy of Versailles—

“Or Trump Tower,” Esther cracked. “And I thought Mr. Scrib was living high. Sheesh!”

The young maid took our coats, and we were left alone. Minutes passed in stillness. Not even the potted palms swayed. Esther looked at me questioningly.

“Are we plebeians awaiting royalty?”

“Maybe Ms. Babcock is busy on a phone call.”

“Or maybe she likes to make people wait, so she can make a grand entrance down those Mall of America stairs. Do you think we should curtsy?”

“A polite smile should suffice. Though she is literary royalty, so do what you feel.”

After another minute ticked by, Esther gazed at the soaring ceiling with a jaundiced eye. “I wonder if clouds form up there.”

“I don’t see an umbrella stand, so let’s hope not.”

Just then, a door opened somewhere high above us, and we heard an enthusiastic cry. “Ah, there you are!”

Addison Ford Babcock glided down the stairs like a swan approaching shore. Her slender body was wrapped in a silky chartreuse sheath, and her long neck and porcelain wrists glittered with a Tiffany showroom’s worth of jewelry. With her upswept red hair, perfectly applied makeup, and designer heels, she appeared ready for a Michelin-starred fine dining experience.

“I think we’re underdressed,” I whispered in Esther’s ear.

“For a casual brunch at home? Naw, this is classic intimidation by affluence.”

When Addy reached the bottom of the staircase, she clasped my hands (as best as she could with an emerald the size of a walnut on one finger and a ring of solid jade on another).

“So glad you’ve come, Clare, and you did bring a guest!”

Esther nodded. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Babcock—”

“Call me Addy, please. All my friends do, and I certainly hope you’ll think of me as a friend.”

I introduced Esther as the young force behind resurrecting our Village Blend’s Writer’s Block Lounge. Addy began to gush, telling Esther how important her task was and the hope she gave to aspiring writers.

“And you can count my granddaughter among them,” Addy revealed. “She’s a serious writer herself, and just before you arrived, she left for the Village Blend to try out your relaunched Writer’s Block Lounge.”

That news surprised us, but Addy hardly let us absorb it before issuing a gentle command. “Come along now. We’ll dine in the parlor.”