Candles down the dark wood walls, white linen, crystal catching the low light of the chandeliers, the trio playing something soft, and beyond the tall glass the black Pacific going out forever.

Alton took it in with a proud, satisfied smile — the smile of a man who assumed all of this had simply appeared for him.

I had spent weeks on that room.

I had chosen the restaurant for the view Alton would love, picked the trio off a recording because they played the folk standards he’d grown up on, tasted the menu, approved the flowers, and yes, paid the deposit Mildred insisted be large enough to impress her friends.

Not one person in that family knew any of it, and that was fine; I hadn’t done it for credit.

But standing in the doorway watching them all admire a room I’d built for them, I felt the particular loneliness of the man who makes the magic and is never quite allowed to be in the photograph of it.