Chapter 18: The Loft

"No," I wrote back. "I could never hate you. Not once."

Brynn answered before I could put the phone down.

"Then come Saturday. Housewarming at the loft, four o'clock. Mom's coming at seven. Please come."

I wrote back one line: "I'll be there."

On Saturday Ansel parked in front of a brick building with a view of the lake and a bank notice taped to the lobby door.

"Notice of intent to seize," he read. "This unit and four others."

"She hasn't seen it."

"A neighbor has. Look."

A woman in a puffy coat was peeling a corner of the paper back, and when she saw us she let it fall.

Brynn's door was propped open with a flowerpot.

The loft was enormous, and she'd filled it with people.

Aunts held paper plates, and the uncle who had put two hundred thousand dollars into the company stood at the window with his back to everyone.

Half the old ninth floor had come, and Hattie, and the editor with his guitar.

"Mara."

Brynn came across the floor in a green sweater with her arms already open.

She was slight and bright and warm, and she hugged me carefully, round the left side.

"You're here."

"I'm here."

"I need to show you the bedroom," she said, loudly, for the room. "The closet's ridiculous."

She pulled me by the hand down a hall and shut the door.

The bedroom held a bed, a rack of unopened boxes and a window the size of a wall.