It’s that simple. Sitting in the living room, one hand gripped around the handle of her suitcase and the other on her make-up case, she waits to be picked up and driven to the airfield. The room is sparse, with a small leather cocktail table, a long Italian bench that serves as a couch, and a hearth screen covering the never-used fireplace. The only other furnishings are two folding benches, which, in the dim room, look bony and ordinary, caged by the bars of sunlight streaking around the curtains. Nevertheless, the wood floors gleam—her housekeeper, Eunice, waxed them earlier, then moved on to the master bedroom, where she’s making the bed. When she’s finished, Eunice will gather the dirty glasses and dishes to wash in the kitchen; before leaving, she’ll crack open the bedroom window, enough to let in some fresh air. She’s impatient for this weekend to get under way. When Frank invited her to the Cal Neva Lodge, his hotel on the lake, he said, Sometimes you need to get away, and there was no argument there.
