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I look into the teacup, my reflection shimmering atop the copper-colored liquid.
“I hate it,” I say.
“I’m not surprised,” Greta says as she contemplates me from the other side of the breakfast nook. “There are two types of people in this world, dear. Those who would look at that wallpaper and see only flowers, and those who would see only faces.”
“Fantasy versus reality,” I say.
Greta nods. “Exactly. At first, I thought you were one of those people who only sees the flowers. Head in the clouds. Prone to flights of fancy. Now I know better. You see the faces, don’t you?”
I give her a quick nod.
“That means you’re a realist.”
“What about you?” I say.
“I see both at once and decide which is more important to focus on,” Greta says. “Which I suppose makes me pragmatic. But today, I choose to focus on the flowers. Which is the real reason I stopped by. I wanted to give you this.”
She digs through her tote bag, eventually removing a first-edition hardcover ofHeart of a Dreamer.
“It’s signed,” Greta says as she hands it to me. “Just as you requested when you first attacked me in the lobby.”
“I didn’tattack,” I say, feigning annoyance when in fact I’m touched beyond words.
That feeling—of friendship, of gratitude—lasts only a moment. Because when I open the book and see what Greta wrote on the title page, my blood turns cold.
“You don’t like it?” Greta says.
I stare at the inscription, rereading every word. I want to be sure I’m not mistaken.
I’m not.
“I love it,” I say, a bit too loudly, hoping the sound drowns out the voice of doubt that’s now whispering in my ear.
It doesn’t.
“Then why do you look like you’re about to be hit with one of my sudden sleeps?”
Because that’s how I feel. Like I’m perched on the edge of a great chasm, waiting for the slightest breeze to shove me screaming into it.
“I feel bad, that’s all,” I say. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”
“It was no trouble at all,” Greta says. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to.”
“But you were right to be annoyed with me when we first met. You must get bothered all the time to sign copies. Especially by the building’s apartment sitters.”
“You’re wrong there. I haven’t signed a copy for any other person at the Bartholomew. You’re special, Jules. This is my way of showing you that.”
I try to act flattered, clutching the book to my chest and pretending to be as thrilled as I truly would have been if Greta had done this a day or so ago. In truth, I want this book as far away from me as possible.
“I’m honored,” I say. “Truly. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Greta continues to give me a concerned look. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
“To be honest, I’m not feeling well.” Since faking enthusiasm didn’t work, I might as well try an excuse that’s slightly closer to the truth. “I think a cold is coming on. It always happens when the seasons start to change. I thought the tea would help, but I think what I really need is to lie down for a bit.”
If Greta sees through my attempt to get her out of the apartment, she doesn’t show it. She simply downs the rest of her tea, hoists the tote bag onto her shoulder, and shuffles out of the kitchen. At the door, she says, “Get some rest. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
I force a smile. “Not unless I check on you first.”