Rough Trade

building were one to a floor. This was the building’s only duplex and had been formed by connecting the seventh-floor apartment, which had once belonged to my parents, to the one directly above, where my grandparents had lived, by means of a grand reverse staircase that swung gracefully through the entranceway. Taken together, the two floors made it almost as large as Chrissy and Jeff’s house in Milwaukee. Standing there alone it suddenly felt as big as a cathedral.
    Elliott stepped off the elevator and slowed his step in order to take it all in. He made his way across the room to the enameled fireplace and ran his hand along the top of the mantel.
    “You may be moving uptown,” he declared with a wolfish grin, “but I can see that your housekeeping hasn’t changed.”
    “Once a slob, always a slob,” I replied, greatly relieved that he hadn’t immediately fallen down in shock or decided to hit me up for a loan.
    “How did you know I would be here?” I asked, wondering what exactly it was about him that attracted me. Compared with Stephen he was certainly nothing to look at, six foot one with a mop of soft brown hair that fell into his eyes like a schoolboy’s. He had dark brown eyes that were flecked with gold and strong hands that felt dry and warm. He smiled seldom but when he did it was wonder, like the arrival of spring.
    “I’m a detective, remember,” he admonished, flashing a grin. “I called your secretary and she told me where I could find you.” He cast his arm casually around my waist as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “So how about giving me the nickel tour?”
    “This whole block of buildings was erected in the early thirties during the heyday of the Beaux Arts period,” I began, feeling flustered and starting to prattle. “It’s one of the last ones that David Adler designed before his death. Adler was—”
    “—an architect justifiably famous for his sense of proportion and eye for detail who specialized in designing city apartments and country houses for the old guard of Chicago society,” Elliott cut in. Chicagoans know architecture the same way that the French know cheese; they grow up surrounded by its infinite variety. Even so, I was impressed.
    “Adler was a fanatic for detail,” I said, beckoning for him to follow me into the library. “Look at the paneling. You can really see it on the doors. There’s English paneling on the library side, but it’s different on the sides that face the two adjoining rooms. There’s French paneling on the bedroom side and a concealed door on the parlor side. Only Adler would have gone to the trouble.”
    “So is this your favorite room?” he asked, taking in the pin-and-dart moldings and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of burled wood.
    “No. Come upstairs. I’ll show you my absolute favorite place in the world.”
    We walked side by side up the broad stairway. From the arched window on the landing we could see the headlights glittering at our feet as the last weary commuters headed out of the city for the night. From the jutting peninsula of Navy Pier the enormous carousel made a slow, luminous circle against the backdrop of the night sky. At the top of the stairs I pushed open the French doors and ushered him into the ballroom.
    “It’s ridiculous, I know,” I said as he just stood there gaping. “It’s almost like keeping a horse and carriage, like trying to hold on to another era—one that’s never coming back. But I love this room. I remember my parents had parties here when I was a little girl, and my brother Teddy and I would sneak out of bed and hide under the tables and watch them dance. Every time I come in here, I can still remember the swirling skirts and the smell of cigarette smoke mingled with champagne.”
    “I didn’t realize that you’d lived here before.”
    “Yes. This apartment was a present to my parents from my grandparents for their wedding.”
    “Gosh. When my sister got married, I think my folks bought her a washer and dryer.”
    “Yeah, but at least she got to live wherever she wanted. As beautiful as my parents’ apartment was, my mother still had to live in the same building as her mother-in-law.”
    “How old were you when you moved?”
    “Six. I was heartbroken when we went to live in Lake Forest. I thought it was the end of the world. It was like being exiled to Gorky. It’s funny how much of this apartment I remember. I’ve always been hopelessly and