No one here knew who she used to be, and neither would they care, Lillian surmised. Most of the townspeople rarely, if ever, ventured into the big city. Her likeness was only to be found in the mirror, and she’d watched with a removed curiosity as her skin drooped and became dotted with sunspots—how her mother would have cried to see her daughter’s ivory skin darken—and her hair became streaked with gray, growing finer, more likely to tangle. Archer still viewed her as a beauty, that was all that mattered, and when she looked at him, she still envisioned the handsome young gentleman with the shock of thick hair, never mind that it was silver now.
They’d had one daughter, Anna, who lived close by with her husband and her own baby girl. Lillian was eternally grateful that she and Archer had created a happy family with few disagreements. Maybe it was her hands-off approach, so different from Kitty’s overbearing style or Mr. Frick’s incessant meddling, that had done the trick. Or maybe it was simply luck.
So quickly, it seemed, she’d become a mother and then a grandmother, and had found genuine delight in the sound of a toddler’s giggles erupting like bubbles of joy. She’d reconnected with Bertha, and twice a year they met in the city and proudly shared family photos （Bertha had six grandchildren now）。 Although they rarely spoke of that final night at the mansion, they knew their secrets were safe with each other, that it was a bond that would never be broken.
When Lillian ventured into New York, she did her best to avoid passing any of her statues, as each stone-cold likeness stood as a reminder of how young and innocent she’d been, and how easily forgotten. While the sculptors’ names were etched into history, hers was lost forever.
As Helen harangued the receptionist at the front desk of the nursing home, Lillian studied the two young people in tow. They looked tired and confused, and she still wasn’t sure how they fit in to all this. The girl, Veronica, was an exquisite creature with the oddest haircut, and she kept looking at the man—Joshua was his name—as if she needed something from him.
“Miss Winnie’s in the solarium,” announced Helen. “Follow me.”
At the back of the building, they went through a door to a sunny room filled with ferns and orchids. The intense humidity inside brought back hot summer days when the thick air dripped with moisture. Helen stopped and pointed.
Miss Winnie looked almost exactly the same, stout and wrinkled, even though she had to be in her early nineties by now. Her hair was thinning, the scalp underneath a smooth and shiny pale pink. She was dozing in her wheelchair, her chin dropped forward, her hands clasped atop a plaid blanket.
“Wait.” Lillian stopped Helen with a hand on her arm. “I should go.”
“Why you?”
“The element of surprise. Didn’t you say you visit her regularly?”
“I come once a month.” Helen hesitated only for a moment. “I guess you’re right. We’ll go around to the back, where she can’t see us but we can hear.”
Lillian nodded. “I’ll wait until you’re in position.”
“I’d like to come with you as well, Lillian, if it’s okay?” said Veronica. She shifted from one foot to the other. “Maybe I can help in some way, if you get stuck.” She peered up at her from beneath thick bangs, reminding Lillian of a dog who’d misbehaved. Something was going on between this odd trio who’d shown up on her doorstep this morning, but she couldn’t suss out exactly what it was.
Lillian checked with Helen, who shrugged.
Miss Winnie was waking up just as Lillian and Veronica approached. Lillian drew up a chair while Veronica remained standing, a little off to the side.
“Miss Winnie. Do you remember me?” Lillian asked.
“No.” She coughed several times, her breathing wet and heavy. “Who are you?”
“I was Miss Helen’s private secretary, around the time that Mr. Frick passed away. Do you remember?”
Miss Winnie nodded but didn’t smile. Her eyes flicked back and forth between Lillian and Veronica, then settled on Lillian. “You were the pretty one. I remember.”
“It turns out I don’t live far from here. Some coincidence, right?”
“Well, that’s nice. Why are you here? Who is this, your daughter?”
Veronica held out her hand to Miss Winnie. “I’m a friend, my name’s Veronica. We came to visit someone we know who lives here, and then Lillian realized she knew you.”
Miss Winnie studied Lillian’s features, like she was analyzing an artist’s canvas. “You’re not as pretty anymore.”