of equally overstuffed chairs, stood to one side, facing a low square table of polished wood, its surface piled with books. More pillows of various colors were scattered on the floor, which was dressed by an ornately patterned rug. The walls were covered with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames—landscapes, pictures of horses and dogs, as well as a great many portraits of women and their children in curious costumes, the images possessing a disturbing half reality. One in particular caught Sara’s attention: a woman in a blue dress and an orange hat, sitting in a garden beside a little girl. She moved toward it to have a closer look. A small plaque at the bottom of the frame read, “Pierre-Auguste Renoir, On the Terrace, 1881.”
“Well, there you are. It’s about time they sent someone.”
Sara pivoted. A woman, arms folded over her chest, was standing in the bedroom doorway. She was both more and less than the image Sara had assembled from the things Vale and Wilkes had said. The person she had envisioned was at the very least a substantial presence, but the figure before her appeared quite frail. She was perhaps as old as sixty. Deep fissures lined her face, cutting borders between its various regions; crescents of drooping skin hung like hammocks beneath her watery eyes. Her lips were so pale they were practically nonexistent, like ghost lips. She was wearing a shimmering robe of some thin, shiny fabric, a thick towel encircling her head like a turban.
“¿Hablas inglés?”
Sara stared dumbly, unable to formulate a reply to this incomprehensible question.
“Do … you … speak … English?”
“Yes,” Sara stated. “I speak English.”
The woman gave a little start. “Oh. So you do. I have to say, that’s a surprise. How many times have I asked the service to send somebody who spoke even a little English? I don’t even want to tell you.” She made a distracted gesture with her hands. “I’m sorry, your name again?”
Never mind that she hadn’t told her to begin with. “It’s Dani.”
“Dani,” the woman repeated. “Where are you from, exactly?”
The most general answer seemed the wisest. “I’m from here.”
“Of course you’re from here. I meant originally. Your tribe. Your people. Your clan.” Another agitated flutter of her hands. “You know. Your familia.”
With each exchange, Sara felt herself being pulled deeper into the quicksand of the woman’s oddness. Yet something about her was almost endearing. She seemed quite helpless, a twittering bird in a cage.
“California, actually.”
“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” A pause; then, with a dawning look: “Oh, I see. You’re working your way through school. Why didn’t you say so?”
“Ma’am?”
“Please,” she chirped, “call me Lila. And don’t be so modest. It’s an admirable thing you’re doing. A great show of character. Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll be paying you more than the other girls. I made that clear with the service. Fourteen an hour, take it or leave it.”
Fourteen what? Sara wondered. “Fourteen is fine.”
“And, of course, the Social Security. We’ll be paying that, and filing the 1099. David is very particular about these things. He’s what you’d call a rule follower. A big ol’ stick in the mud. No health insurance, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you get that through your school.” She beamed encouragingly. “So, are we good?”
Sara nodded, completely dumbfounded.
“Excellent. I have to say, Dani,” the woman, Lila, continued, gliding into the room, “you’ve come just in the nick of time. Not a moment too soon, in fact.” She had taken a box of matches from her robe and was lighting a large candelabra near her dressing table. “Why don’t you just put that over there?”
She was referring to the tray Wilkes had given her. On it was a metal flask and cup. Sara placed the tray on the table the woman had indicated, adjacent to an ornately carved wardrobe draped with scarves. Lila had positioned herself in front of a standing mirror and was turning her shoulders this way and that, examining her reflection.
“So what do you think?”
“I’m sorry?”
She placed one hand on her stomach and pressed inward as she filled her chest with air. “This awful diet. I don’t think I’ve ever been so famished in my life. But it really does seem to be doing the trick. What would you say, Dani? Another five pounds? You can be honest.”
Standing in profile, the woman was just skin and bones. “You look fine to me,” she said gently. “I wouldn’t lose any more.”
“Really? Because when I look in this