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  Michele didn’t answer, and after a few moments, Kristen got up to let the social worker in. A petite woman with curly brown hair and gentle eyes, Ms. Richards came into the room and pulled up a chair beside Michele. Amanda and Kristen sat at the foot of the bed, watching anxiously.

  “How are you feeling, sweetie?” Ms. Richards asked. Michele didn’t bother answering that question. Ms. Richards reached into her briefcase and pulled out Michele’s file. “Well, I have some good news.”

  “I get to live with Kristen or Amanda?” Michele asked.

  “Well … no. The good news is that the court lawyer and I made contact with the guardians your mother named for you in her will, and they want to take you in immediately. I have a letter here from them.”

  “What?” Michele sat upright. “What guardians? I didn’t know my mom had named anyone for me, and if she did, I know it would be Amanda or Kristen’s parents.”

  “The will was very clear, and there was no alternate guardian named. Just Marion’s parents, Walter and Dorothy Windsor.”

  “What?” Michele, Amanda, and Kristen gasped in unison. Michele’s mind raced, as she felt something besides grief for the first time in weeks.

  “That has to be a mistake,” Michele said shakily. “My mom has been cut off from her parents since before I was born. They drove my dad away. I’ve never even met them! There’s no way she would give them guardianship—”

  “I’ve seen cases like this before,” Ms. Richards interrupted. “Often a mother or father does not have the best relationship with her or his own parents but still recognizes that they’re the right people to take care of the child, should something happen.”

  “It can’t be.” Michele shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t actually have to go, do I? You can’t force me.”

  “Since you’re a minor, you are under control of the family courts,” Ms. Richards said carefully. “Contesting the will in this case requires you to first live with the Windsors for a minimum of three months. And even after that, I have to warn you that fighting this could be a lengthy process. Since you’re nearly seventeen now, you’re probably better off sticking it out with your grandparents until you turn eighteen.”

  “So wait … Michele has to move to New York?” Amanda asked, looking stunned.

  “Yes.” Ms. Richards handed Michele a FedEx envelope. “I can’t explain it, but it’s what Marion requested.”

  Michele stared at the thin package for a few moments before ripping it open. Inside was a cream envelope with her name written in fancy calligraphy. The return address was a stamp reading: Windsor Mansion, 790 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10022. Michele began to read.

  September 30, 2010

  Dear Michele,

  It is very difficult to believe that this is only our first correspondence. I have thought of you and wondered about you every day. Despite the fact that we weren’t in each other’s lives, you and your mother were always in my heart, as well as your grandfather’s. We so wish things had been different between all of us.

  We are devastated by Marion’s passing. We’ve been so worried about how you would get on without your mother, and thus were relieved to learn that Marion had named us your guardians in her will. To that end, we submitted an application on your behalf to Berkshire High School, one of the finest private schools in the nation. This was the alma mater of Marion and most of the other Windsor girls over the last century.

  We would like to fly you to New York as soon as possible. In this painful time, getting to meet you and have you live with us will be the one bright spot for your grandfather and me.

  Love,

  Dorothy Windsor

  Michele read the letter three times, waiting for the words to feel real. Did her grandmother mean what she had written? Moreover, why would her mom choose her parents to be Michele’s guardians? She had to have known that Michele would try to fight it.

  Ms. Richards broke the long silence. “I know this wasn’t what you wanted, Michele. I know we’re asking a lot of you, to leave your school and friends and home. But think about this: you’ll be living in the same house your mom grew up in. Mr. and Mrs. Windsor told me that you’ll have Marion’s old bedroom and you’ll be attending her school. Maybe your mom chose her parents as your guardians so you could stay connected to her in this way.”

  Michele was quiet as Ms. Richards’s words sank in. What she wanted most in the world was to feel her mom with her again. What if this was the way?

  Suddenly, Michele’s mind flashed back to her last car ride with Marion, when they had listened to the song about nostalgia, “Sodade.”

  “What does it make you think of?”

  “Home.”

  “Okay,” Michele said after a pause. “I’ll go.”

  “Flight attendants, be seated for landing,” the pilot announced over the PA system.

  Michele took a deep breath. She turned to look through the airplane window as New York, a mass of bright lights and buildings, became visible below the clouds. She nervously twirled a lock of hair around her finger. This was it. She was about to meet her new city—her new life.

  She leaned back against the plush seat, which felt almost too comfortable. Her mom had never approved of wasting money on first-class tickets, but that was what Walter and Dorothy had arranged. For a moment, Michele felt guilty.

  It seemed impossible that she had read her grandmother’s letter only one week earlier. Everything had happened so fast after that. Amanda, Kristen, and their families had insisted on helping with her packing, and the Windsors had arranged for her boxes to be shipped to New York three days before the move. Ms. Richards had gathered all Michele’s school and medical records, withdrawn her from Crossroads and enrolled her in Berkshire High to start on the eleventh of October. Just three days from now, Michele realized, her stomach lurching at the thought.

  The previous night had been Michele’s farewell sleepover with Amanda and Kristen. She’d expected to be inconsolable over saying goodbye to them, but the loss of her mom had made everything else pale in comparison. So while her friends tearfully spoke of how strange life would be without her and promised to call, text, and Facebook her every day, Michele simply sat there, numbly observing this latest step in the dismantling of her life.

  Now she glanced back out the window and saw that the plane was lowering to the ground. She was almost in New York.

  Michele made her way to baggage claim at John F. Kennedy International Airport, her heart hammering with nerves. It was hard to believe that she was just moments away from meeting her mom’s parents for the very first time. But to her surprise, she instead spotted a man in a crisp business suit standing by the luggage carousel and holding up a sign bearing her name.

  “Hi,” Michele said as she approached him. “I’m Michele.”

  The man’s face lit up and he gave her a goofy little bow. “Wonderful to meet you, Miss Windsor. I’m Fritz, the family chauffeur.”

  Chauffeur? Michele thought with a jolt. This was going to be different from California, all right.

  “Um, you can call me Michele. And it’s nice to meet you too,” she replied. “So I take it my grandparents aren’t here?”

  “Oh no.” Fritz looked at her as though that were a wild leap. “They’re waiting for you at home, of course.”

  “Right.” Michele nodded. But she couldn’t help feeling hurt that her grandparents didn’t want to be at the airport to welcome her.

  A few minutes later, after retrieving her two suitcases, Michele was in the backseat of the sleek black Windsor SUV. As Fritz drove from Queens into Manhattan, Michele gazed out the window. She watched as they passed the suburban homes, shops, and restaurants of Queens and headed onto the highway. The blue-gray East River shimmered below while lit-up marquees advertising the latest Broadway hits dazzled overhead, like an opening act for the city that was about to make its entrance. Mom must have seen dozens of Broadway shows while growing up here, Michele realized with a pang of grief.<
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  As they exited the freeway, Michele sucked in her breath at her first glimpse of Manhattan, watching as snapshots of New York City came to life: the long avenues that seemed to stretch on endlessly, the soaring skyscrapers packed close together, and the bright lights casting a theatrical glow over all the sights. Before long, they arrived at Fifth Avenue, which was block upon block of five-star hotels, elegant restaurants, and high-end stores. Fashionably dressed locals zipped into and out of the shops, skillfully juggling their BlackBerries and iPhones with their shopping bags. As Michele watched the people go by, it seemed to her that all the passersby had someone—someone to hold their hand as they crossed the street, someone to hurry through the chill with. In this bustling new city, Michele felt even more alone.

  Fritz continued up Fifth, driving past the majestic, Gothic St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the Beaux Arts structure of the famed Plaza Hotel. And then he approached a four-story palace of shimmering white marble, which stood proudly behind towering wrought-iron gates carved with a W. Old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages and pedicabs transported giddy tourists past this mammoth estate into nearby Central Park.

  “Here we are,” Fritz announced. “Welcome home!”

  Michele’s mouth fell open in astonishment. “Are you kidding me?”

  A portico of four hulking white Corinthian columns fronted the mansion’s exterior. There were curved balconies and arched windows, and beyond the gates, Michele could see that the driveway and grounds were decorated with a rose garden and small sculptures. A group of tourists stood outside the gates, taking pictures of one of the last remaining relics of Gilded Age New York.

  Fritz’s eyes met Michele’s in the rearview mirror and he chuckled. “I forgot, it’s your first time seeing the home. Pretty incredible, huh? You know, it was modeled after the palazzi of the Italian Renaissance. Created by the foremost American architect of the late nineteenth century, Richard Morris Hunt.”

  Fritz used a remote control to open the gates and the tourists scampered out of the way, gawking at the SUV. As he drove around the circular gravel driveway that swept up to the imposing front doors, Michele had the strangest feeling that she had gazed upon this massive structure before. After climbing out of the backseat, she stopped for one more glance at the mansion’s exterior before following Fritz up the white stone steps.

  Fritz opened the doors of gilded bronze and glass. “Welcome to the Grand Hall,” he said with a flourish of his hand.

  Michele gasped. “Oh. My. God.”

  She had stepped into an enormous airy indoor atrium, built with domed arches, soaring marble columns, and frescoed ceilings. The upper-story galleries looked out on this indoor courtyard, giving the mansion an open-air feel. The east wall was made almost entirely of glass, offering a view of the mansion’s back garden, with the hills of Central Park in the distance. Two Italian tapestries flanked the entrance, and the ceiling was painted to depict a summer sky, framed in ornamented gold. But the centerpiece of the room was the grand staircase of white marble with deep red carpeting, featuring ornate wrought-iron and bronze banisters. The staircase rose from the Grand Hall, breaking into two curving sections at the first landing. Opposite the staircase was a huge ornately carved fireplace, where a glowing fire was lit.

  Our whole Venice Beach house could fit into this one room, Michele thought in amazement. Her eyes could hardly take in this overwhelming spectacle. Marion’s brief description of the Windsor Mansion’s grandeur had hardly prepared her for this.

  At last she found her voice. “I can’t believe Mom actually grew up here.”

  Fritz turned to look at her, his expression suddenly serious, but before he could say anything, a woman in a tweed suit entered the room. She had dark blond hair pulled back in a businesslike bun and kind blue eyes, and she looked like she was in her midfifties. Her face lit up with a smile at the sight of Michele.

  “Michele! So wonderful to finally meet you,” she greeted her. “I’m Annaleigh, the head housekeeper. I’m in charge of running Windsor Mansion, overseeing the staff, and keeping your grandparents—and now you!—happy.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Michele replied. As she shook Annaleigh’s hand, she thought for the second time that day that she had to have entered an alternate universe. Her mom had never hired any kind of domestic help before, so having this whole household staff sprung on her was more than a little overwhelming.

  “Your grandparents are waiting for you in the drawing room. I’ll show you the way.” Annaleigh started toward the room, but for a moment, nerves rooted Michele to her spot. Was she really ready to meet the grandparents who had ignored her for virtually her entire life? What was she going to say to them? Were they supposed to hug? Shake hands? She glanced down at her jeans and Converse sneakers, feeling that she didn’t belong in this fancy world at all.

  Annaleigh turned around, giving Michele a quizzical look. Michele took a deep breath and followed her out of the room. As Annaleigh led her through hallways decorated with French and Italian paintings, a prickly feeling rose on Michele’s skin. She once again had the sensation that these hallways, this place, were strangely familiar.

  They soon reached a large formal gold-paneled room, where crystal chandeliers hung from a coffered ceiling. And in the room stood a gray-haired couple. They were looking out the broad windows and murmuring to each other, their backs to the door, so Michele’s first glimpse of her grandparents consisted of fancy-looking black fabric adorning two tall, reedlike bodies.

  Annaleigh cleared her throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Windsor? Michele is here.”

  “Michele.” Dorothy’s soft voice spoke the name before she turned around, clutching her husband’s weathered hand.

  Michele’s first reaction was that they looked nothing like what she thought of as grandparents. Amanda’s grandparents lived with her family, and as a result Michele had grown close to them and considered them the gold standard. Amanda’s Grammy and Papa were all round softness, a little like Mr. and Mrs. Claus, with Grammy usually knitting new sweaters for her beloved shih tzu while Papa belly-laughed over his favorite sitcoms. But Michele’s grandparents looked more like an elderly king and queen, with erect posture, austere faces, and designer clothing. Dorothy looked like she had never knit in her life, and Michele couldn’t imagine this regal man belly-laughing over anything. In fact, that was just it: both of them looked like they rarely, if ever, laughed.

  Walter Windsor had a long, narrow face with sharp blue eyes, a salt-and-pepper beard and mustache, and ivory skin the same shade as Michele’s. Dorothy’s gray-blond hair was pulled back in a chignon, and her pale face was dotted with a few age spots, her cheekbones impossibly high. Michele was struck by her grandmother’s hazel eyes. They’re just like Mom’s … and mine. Except that Dorothy’s eyes had a hollowness to them that made Michele draw back in discomfort.

  “Hello, Michele,” Walter said, taking a few steps toward her. He and Dorothy looked just as unsure of what to do as Michele felt. They stood a few feet apart, looking at each other.

  “H-hi,” Michele stammered.

  “You are beautiful, dear,” Dorothy said quietly, studying her features. “Just as I expected.”

  Michele looked down, suddenly embarrassed. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  “You don’t know how long your grandfather and I have waited for this,” Dorothy continued heavily. “We only wish we weren’t meeting under such terrible circumstances.”

  Walter looked at her as though seeing a ghost. “You are so much like … her.”

  Michele couldn’t reply. She just stared at these strangers, her mind buzzing with dozens of questions that she felt unable to ask out loud. After a few moments of silence, Dorothy placed a tentative hand on Michele’s shoulder.

  “Well then. You must be tired from the trip. Annaleigh will show you up to your room so you can get settled. We’ll have dinner together later.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Michele looked up and noticed that Annaleigh had been standing
in the doorway all along. Evidently she had expected the big reunion to last only a few measly minutes. Michele followed Annaleigh out of the room, stung. Was that her grandparents’ idea of a warm welcome?

  Annaleigh turned to Michele with a friendly smile. “Would you like a tour of the house before I take you up to your room?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Michele followed Annaleigh into the opposite hallway, which was decorated with tapestries illuminated by candelabra.

  “I’m not sure if you noticed, but the furniture in the drawing room is entirely made up of reproductions of pieces from Versailles’s Petit Trianon,” Annaleigh announced proudly as she led the way. “Like some of the best Gilded Age homes, the Windsor Mansion followed the rule of being built like an Italian palazzo and decorated like a French Rococo chateau.”

  “Wow.” Michele shook her head, having a hard time registering that this was all real.

  The first door Annaleigh opened led into a room of pastel blue with gilt moldings. A mahogany dining suite stood at the center of the room. “Now, this is the morning room.”

  “Seriously? You have one room just for the morning?” Michele asked in disbelief.

  Annaleigh chuckled. “Well, not exactly. Of course, the Windsors always have their breakfast in this room, but morning rooms are also traditionally used for lunch, tea, and any casual daytime gatherings.”

  There’s nothing casual about this place, Michele thought as she followed Annaleigh into the next room, the walnut-paneled library. At the sight of this temple of books, Michele felt the flicker of a smile play on her face for the first time in weeks. She wandered through the room, scanning some of the titles of the leather-bound volumes lining the ceiling-high bookcases. A mural of angels was painted on the ceiling, and Baccarat chandeliers sparkled beneath it. The walls and desks were a deep mahogany, and plush dark leather armchairs and wing chairs scattered throughout the room all looked tailor-made for curling up with a novel.