“I want to win a game before I die,” I teased.
“That,” he chuckled, “you will have to earn.”
A few weeks later, his daughter Evelyn came to visit.
She remained near the edge of the courtyard, quietly observing us with an unreadable expression.
Arthur motioned for her to join us, but she simply shook her head before walking away.
“That was Evelyn,” Arthur told me. “She is not like her brother. Not entirely. But she does what Gregory tells her. She always has.”
“People can change,” I said.
“Some do,” he agreed. “Usually when it costs them something.”
We remained silent while the jazz record crackled to its final note.
All at once, Arthur looked much older, almost fragile against the luxury surrounding him.
