I remembered her careful manners and her gift for making people feel important even when Malcolm was in the room.

She had driven down from Connecticut after hearing about our daughters.

She carried a photograph from a Whitcomb holiday dinner years earlier.

In it, I stood beside Nathaniel, smiling dutifully while Malcolm spoke over my shoulder to a board member.

Lucinda asked whether we could talk privately.

“I was there when Ada Whitcomb asked about your drawings,” she said.

“She wanted to see them because she had heard you planned affordable housing interiors.

Malcolm told her that wasn’t your real work.