color as her hair. By the time she reaches me, I notice that she is not wearing any shoes but, instead, big, chunky knit socks. “Monique, hello,” Evelyn says. I am momentarily surprised at the casualness and confidence with which she says my name, as if she has known me for years. “Hello,” I Say. “Tm Evelyn.” She reaches out and takes my hand, shaking it. It strikes me as a unique form of power to say your own name when you know that everyone in the room, everyone in the world, already knows it. Grace comes in with a white mug of coffee on a white saucer. “There you go. With just a bit of cream.” “Thank you so much,” I say, taking it from her. “That’s just the way I like it as well,” Evelyn says, and I’m embarrassed to admit it thrills me. I feel as if I’ve pleased her. “Can I get either of you anything else?” Grace asks. I shake my head, and Evelyn doesn’t answer. Grace leaves. “Come,” Evelyn says. “Lets go to the living room and get comfortable.” As I grab my bag, Evelyn takes the coffee out of my hand, carrying it for me. I once read that charisma is “charm that inspires devotion.” And I can’t help but think of that now, when she’s holding my coffee for me. The combination of such a powerful woman and such a small and humble gesture is enchanting, to be sure. We step into a large, bright room with floor-to-ceiling windows. There are oyster-gray chairs opposite a soft slate-blue sofa. The carpet under our feet is thick, bright ivory, and as my eyes follow its path, I am struck by the black grand piano, open under the light of the windows. On the walls are two blown-up black-and-white images. The one above the sofa is of Harry Cameron on the set of a movie. The one above the fireplace is the poster for Evelyn’s 1959 version of Little Women. Evelyn, Celia St. James, and two other actresses’ faces make up the image. All four of these women may have been household names back in the 50s, but it is Evelyn and Celia who stood the test of