“We want to be close to you this week,” Eleanor said.

She reached into her purse and took out a small silver compact to check her lipstick.

The gesture was relaxed, almost tender, as if eight years of cold distance had been wiped away by a two-hour drive up the Taconic Parkway.

“I have a briefing with Brenda at noon,” I said, leaning back.

“Take your time,” Eleanor said, snapping her compact shut with a sharp click.

“We’ll be waiting right here on the terrace.”