Evie seemed far more distressed than Mina at the damage to Mina’s house and her possessions. The girl was crouched outside at that very moment, combing through the remnants of Mina’s smoke-damaged kitchen, separating what was salvageable from the trash that had been dumped in the house to make the interior look for all the world like something out of a horror movie. The “vintage” kitchen utensils and appliances were all going to the Historical Society. A truck had already come and hauled off Mina’s old stove.

As for Mina, she was looking forward to a brand-new kitchen. Secretly she hoped Evie would move into the sad house next door. But Mina hadn’t dared say so, afraid Evie would take it as a plea for help. In no way did Mina want to become a burden to anyone but herself.

The one piece of furniture Mina had kept was her mother’s mahogany coffee table. Its top was warped and the drawer stuck, but she preferred it to the ticky-tacky table that had come with the trailer. The spiral notebook she’d kept in its drawer survived unscathed, too, though Mina had lost her taste for listing the dead. On fresh pages she’d started writing down information about places to call about hiring a real health aide and calculating just how much help she could afford.

Sitting on that table now was an engraved invitation to the gala opening of Five-Boroughs Historical Society’s Seared in Memory. Her story, her picture, her souvenir would be featured. Cocktail attire, it said at the bottom. Mina was having a black beaded dress of Annabelle’s altered for the occasion. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a cocktail, but she was planning to have a whiskey sour—after she’d been introduced and said a few words, of course. She hoped it would come with a maraschino cherry, or maybe two.

The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. She let the call go to the answering machine that Evie had set up for her.

“Hello?” A man’s voice came through the speaker on the machine. “I’m calling about the car?”

It was the eighth person who’d called in response to the ad Evie had posted for Mina on something called Craigslist. Mina picked up the phone. “Hello? Hello?”

“Hello?”

“You’re interested in the car?”

“1975 Ford Mustang, V8 engine? Ad says fifty-six thousand miles on it. Not a hundred or two hundred fifty-six thou?”

Pffff. That was what they all asked.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, why are you selling it?”

“Because it’s time.” Brian might have been self-serving, but she did need to face facts. It was time to stop driving.

“Any problems with the car?”

“No problems. It runs fine. Not much rust. But you know, old is old. A certain amount of wear and tear is inevitable.”

That brought a chuckle. “What are you asking?”

The current high bid, $2,550, was from Chet in Westchester. That was more than she’d ever imagined getting, and more than she’d paid for it brand-new.

“High bid so far is three thou,” she said. Thou. Mina liked the sound of the slang she’d heard every caller use.

He whistled. “That’s a lot. I’d take very good care of it.”

“I don’t care one way or another how you take care of it. It’s not a house pet.” As if on cue, Ivory rubbed up against her, demanding attention. “I’m selling to the highest bidder.”

“But three thou?”

Mina smiled to herself. “You go over to the Sunoco station and sit in it for sixty seconds. The interior’s leather. Steering wheel, too. You think you can find another one like it, go right ahead. Then you can call me and if it’s still available—”

“Wait, wait . . .”

Soon, Mina had herself a new high bidder.

Chapter Sixty-one

Evie stood for a moment in the arched doorway of the Great Hall at Five-Boroughs Historical Society. Waiters and waitresses glided among the guests, carrying silver trays of champagne and canapés. Evie took a moment to, as her father would have put it, “take a victory lap,” greeting guests as she threaded her way past the eighteenth-century steam-powered pumper that could have been used to fight the Great Fire of 1776, through the displays for the Civil War Draft Riots and the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, and finally to the Empire State Building plane crash. Evie was wearing a killer outfit, a white silk shirt with the collar turned up and billowing sleeves, with a black taffeta circle skirt from the ’50s that rustled when she moved. At the waist, she wore a cinch belt she’d made using a vintage brass buckle in the shape of an eagle’s head and wings.

Mrs. Yetner was there, too, seated on a little platform alongside the jet engine whose plummet down the elevator shaft had almost killed her. She had on an elegant black beaded dress that Evie guessed was from the 1940s. Her face glowed as cameras snapped her picture and she answered questions from a reporter.

Evie stepped closer and picked up snippets of what she was saying, “Her name was Betty Lou Oliver . . . ,” “Eightieth floor . . . ,” and “ . . . terrifying. I thought I was going to die.”

Across the room, Connor was talking to another journalist. Evie caught his eye, and he flashed her a covert thumbs-up. She smiled. This was the kind of publicity they’d only dreamed of getting for the exhibit opening.

Next week, Evie was returning to a regular work schedule and moving back to her apartment. There was still plenty of work to be done, preparing her mother’s house to go on the market. Finn had gotten Frank Cutler to officially nullify the life estate deed that her mother had indeed signed. Finn had left the canceled document at the house for her along with a handwritten letter. He was truly sorry, Finn had written. He only wanted to preserve Higgs Point and save it from further development. He had no idea that Cousin Frank had gone off on his own and made a deal with developers whose vision was a gated community of high-rise apartments with fabulous views and an exclusive water shuttle to Wall Street.

Above all, Finn wrote, he’d never meant for Evie’s mother or Mrs. Yetner or anyone else to get hurt. He went on to say that he stood by his offer to donate the remains of Snakapins Park to the Historical Society, or as much of it as Evie felt was worth saving.

He’d ended the letter with, “I can’t tell you how deeply I regret what happened. I only hope you can forgive my naive stupidity, and I’ll keep hoping that you might one day be willing to consider me your friend. At least keep this letter and think about it.”

Evie had kept it.

Ginger came up behind her and linked her arm in Evie’s. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “Daddy would have loved this so much. Mom, too. Here.” She slipped Evie the sapphire earrings that their dad had given their mother on their twentieth wedding anniversary. “Put these on.”

Evie clipped the earrings on, and she and Ginger hugged.

“I just wish I could have told her that I loved her,” Evie said. She tried not to tear up and run her eye makeup.

“You didn’t have to. She knew.”

“Do you think so? Because I’ve been so angry with her for so long. And all these years I blamed her for starting that fire when it was us. We nearly got ourselves killed, and the dogs, too.”

The room quieted. Connor was up on the dais. He stepped to the microphone, tapped on it, then cleared his throat. “Welcome, everyone, to the gala opening of Seared in Memory. First of all, I’d like to thank our generous donors. Without your support, none of this would have been possible.” Applause rippled through the room.

“We are especially delighted,” he went on, “to have Wilhelmina Yetner here today, who was on the eightieth floor in the Empire State Building when a B-25 bomber crashed into it on a foggy day at the end of World War Two. She survived the fire. She survived a fall . . .”