“This is Rufus.”

I give the dog a pat between his pert ears. He licks my hand in response.

“Aw, he likes you,” Marianne says.

Lower we go, passing two other presences from my first tour—the older man struggling his way down the stairs and the weary aide by his side. Instead of pretending not to stare, this time the man offers us a smile and a trembling wave.

“Keep it up, Mr. Leonard,” Marianne calls to him. “You’re doing great.” To me, she whispers, “Heart trouble. He takes the stairs every day because he thinks it’ll prevent another coronary.”

“How many has he had?”

“Three,” she says. “That I know of. Then again, he used to be a senator. I’m sure that alone caused a heart attack or two.”

In the lobby, I say goodbye to Marianne and Rufus and head to the wall of mailboxes. The one for 12A is empty. No surprise there. As I turn away from it, I see someone else entering the lobby. She looks to be in her early seventies and makes no attempt to hide it. No forehead-smoothing Botox like Leslie Evelyn or caked-on foundation like Marianne Duncan. Her face is pale and slightly puffy. Straight gray hair brushes her shoulders.

It’s her eyes that really catch my attention. Bright blue even in the dim light of the lobby, they seem to spark with intelligence. We make eye contact—me staring, she politely pretending that I’m not. But I can’t help it. I’ve seen that face a hundred times, staring at me from the back of a book jacket, most recently this very morning.

“Excuse me—” I stop, wincing at my tone. So nervous and meek. I start again. “Excuse me, but are you Greta Manville? The writer?”

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ears and gives a Mona Lisa smile, not exactly displeased to be recognized, but not overjoyed, either.

“That would be me,” she says in a Lauren Bacall rasp, her voice polite but wary.

There’s a flutter in my chest. My heart beating overtime. Greta Manville, of all people, is right here in front of me.

“I’m Jules,” I say.

Greta Manville makes no attempt to shake my hand, instead edging around me on her way to the mailboxes. I make note of the apartment number.

10A. Two floors below me.

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, sounding anything but pleased.

“I love your book. Heart of a Dreamer changed my life. I’ve read it, like, twenty times. That’s not an exaggeration.” I stop myself again, fully aware that I’m gushing. I take a breath, straighten my spine, and say, as calmly as I can, “Do you think you’d be able to sign my copy?”

Greta doesn’t turn around. “You’re not holding my book.”

“I meant later,” I say. “Next time we run into each other.”

“How do you know there’s going to be a next time?”

“If we do, I mean. But I do want to thank you for writing it. Reading it is why I moved to New York. And now I’m here. Temporarily, at least.”

Greta turns away from her mailbox. Slowly. Not too curious, but enough to study me with those keen, inquisitive eyes. Her lips pucker ever so slightly, as if she’s thinking about what to say next.

“A temporary tenant?”

“Yes. Just moved in.”

This prompts a slight nod from Greta, who says, “I imagine Leslie went over the rules?”

“She did.”

“Then I’m sure she told you about not bothering residents.”

I gulp. I nod. Disappointment burrows into my heart.

“She did say residents like their privacy.”

“And so we do,” Greta says. “You might want to keep that in mind the next time we run into each other.”

She shuts the mailbox and edges past me again, our shoulders brushing. I shrink away. In a voice no louder than a murmur, I say, “Sorry for bothering you. I just thought you’d like to know that Heart of a Dreamer is my favorite book.”

Greta spins around in the middle of the lobby, an armful of mail clutched against her chest. Her blue eyes have turned ice cold.

“It’s your favorite book?”

I feel the urge to backtrack. The words One of them form on my tongue, weak and flavorless. I stop myself. If this is the only time I speak to Greta Manville—and it sure seems like it will be, considering how unpleasant she is—then I want her to know the truth.

“It is.”

“If that’s the case,” she says, “then you need to read more.”

The words have the impact of a slap—hot and stinging. I wince. My cheeks turn red. I even sway back on my heels, as if buffeted by a blow. Greta, meanwhile, strides stiff-backed to the elevator, not even bothering to see my reaction.

Knowing she doesn’t even care how the insult affects me somehow makes it feel worse.

Like I’m the least important person in the world.

But then I turn toward the front door and see Charlie standing just inside the lobby. While I don’t think he witnessed my entire conversation with Greta Manville, he at least saw enough to know why I appear so rattled.

Tipping his cap, he says, “While I’m not allowed to speak ill of the residents, I’m also not supposed to turn a blind eye when one of them is rude. And she was very rude to you, Miss Larsen. I apologize on behalf of everyone at the Bartholomew.”