"He's in the hall taking a call," Eunice Turner said. "My grandson. College." She studied Lindsay the way you study a bill you suspect has an error in it. "You're Lindsay."
"Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Turner, I—"
"You called me Loretta."
The room was very quiet. And there it was, rising up whole out of twenty-two years: a red poinsettia in gold foil from the florist on Maiden Lane, because she had wanted it to be a good one. A card. Her own handwriting. Merry Christmas, Loretta. She had been so pleased with herself.
"I bought you a poinsettia," Lindsay said.
"You did. Nice one." Eunice set her handbag on the table. "Card said Loretta."
"I'm sorry," Lindsay said. "I'm so sorry. There isn't—"
Eunice raised one hand, not sharply. "I'm eighty-one years old," she said. "I don't have the time to carry that for you, and I'm not going to. You carry it." She ran two fingers along the edge of the table and looked at them. "I'll give you this much. You learned my name by February. Some of them took twenty years. Some never did." She rubbed her fingertips together. "Night crew still uses that spray. Leaves a film."
Lindsay didn't know what to say, so she said the true thing. "I didn't know that."
"Lemon oil," said Eunice. "I kept it in the bottom drawer of the desk by Mr. Halloran's door. Bought it myself, on Fulton Street. Facilities took three weeks." She looked at Lindsay over her glasses. "You'd think somebody would've put in a requisition by now."