Genuine Lies

staying at the Savoy.
    It still surprised her that she could afford such tony surroundings. But it was a good feeling, that surprise, telling her she hadn’t forgotten what it was to earn, to climb, or to need.
    The city lights winked at her on this March night. It was as if she were in someone else’s dream, all that velvet darkness, the misty slice of moon, the shadow of water. And so warm here, so blissfully quiet. After one huge yawn, Julia turned away from the window, from the lights. Adventures would have to wait for the morning.
    She unpacked only what she needed for the night, and was deep in her own dreams within twenty minutes.
    In the morning she stepped out of a cab in Knightsbridge and paid off the driver, knowing she was overtipping. She was equally sure, however, that she would never manage the British currency. She remembered to ask for a receipt—her accountant all but frothed at the mouth over her bookkeeping system—then stuck it carelessly in her pocket.
    The house was everything she’d imagined. The enormous redbrick Victorian was sheltered by huge, gnarled trees. Sheimagined they would be beautifully shady in the summer, but for now, the wind rattled through their bare branches in a kind of Dickensian music that was oddly appealing. Smoke puffed from chimneys in thick gray wisps that were quickly tossed higher into the slate sky.
    Though there were cars whizzing by on the street behind her, she could easily imagine the clop-clop of horses, the rattle carriages, the cries of street vendors.
    She moved through the little iron gate, up the cobbled path that cut through the winter-yellow lawn and up the sparkling white steps that led to a sparkling white door. Julia shifted her briefcase, annoyed that her palms were damp and chilled. There was no use denying it, she told herself, she was thinking of Rory Winthrop not so much as Eve’s one-time husband, but as Paul’s father.
    Paul was six thousand miles away, and furious with her. What would he think, she wondered, if he knew she was here, not only pursuing the book, but about to interview his father? He wouldn’t think kindly of it, she was sure, and wished there were a way to mesh his needs with hers.
    She reminded herself that business came first, and pressed the doorbell. A maid answered within moments. Julia caught a glimpse of an enormous hall, all towering ceilings and tiled floors.
    “Julia Summers,” she said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Winthrop.”
    “Yes, ma’am, he’s expecting you. Please come in.”
    The tile was a checkerboard of maroon and ivory, the ceilings graced with heavy brass and crystal chandeliers. To the right was a staircase that swept in a regal curve. Julia surrendered her coat to the waiting maid, then followed her past two George III hall chairs that flanked a mahogany table graced with a vase of hibiscus and one woman’s glove of sapphire leather.
    Instinctively she compared the sitting room with Eve’s. This setting was certainly more formal, more steeped in tradition than Eve’s airy, sun-drenched parlor. Hers shouted wealth and style. This murmured of old money and deep roots.
    “Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Summers. Mr. Winthrop will be along directly.” “Thank you.”
    The maid moved almost soundlessly from the room, shutting the thick mahogany doors behind her. Alone, Julia walked to the hearth to hold her chilled hand out toward the leaping flames. The smoke smelled pleasantly of applewood, offering welcome and comfort. Because it reminded her a bit of her own fireplace in Connecticut, she relaxed.
    The carved mantel above the fire was crowded with old photographs in ornate and highly polished silver frames. The maids, Julia was sure, would curse each time they had to fight the tarnish in all those curves and crevices.
    She amused herself walking from one to the next, studying the dour-faced, stiff-shouldered ancestors of the man she had come to see.
    She recognized Rory Winthrop, and caught a portion of his humor, in the black and white photo where he had posed in beaver hat and starched collar. The movie had been
Delaney Murders
, she recalled, and he’d played the ultra-proper, evilly deranged murderer with eye-glinting delight.
    Julia wasn’t content simply to look at the next picture. She had to pick it up, to hold it. To devour it. It was Paul, she was certain, though the boy in the portrait was no more than eleven or twelve. His hair was lighter, shaggier, and from