She smiles for the camera, her brown eyes sparkling in a different way from anything I’ve ever seen in person. She seems at peace somehow, in full display, and I wonder if the real Evelyn ism’t the woman I've been talking to for the past two weeks but, instead, the one I see before me right now. Even at almost eighty, she commands a room in a way I’ve never seen before. A star is always and forever a star. Evelyn was born to be famous. I think her body helped her. I think her face helped her. But for the first time, watching her in action, moving in front of the camera, I get the sense that she has sold herself short in one way: she could have been born with considerably less physical gifts and probably still made it. She simply has it. That undefinable quality that makes everyone stop and pay attention. She spots me as I stand behind one of the lighting guys, and she stops what she’s doing. She waves me over to her. “Everyone, everyone,” she says. “We need a few photos of Monique and me. Please.” “Oh, Evelyn,” I say. “I don’t want to do that.” I don’t want to even be close to her. “Please,” she says. “Io remember me by.” A couple of people laugh, as if Evelyn is making a joke. Because, of course, no one could forget Evelyn Hugo. But I know she’s serious. And so, in my jeans and blazer, I step up next to her. I take off my glasses. I can feel the heat of the lights, the way they glare in my eyes, the way the wind feels on my face. “Evelyn, I know this isn’t news to you,” the photographer says, “but boy, does the camera love you.” “Oh,” Evelyn says, shrugging. “It never hurts to hear it one more time.” Her dress is low-cut, revealing her still-ample cleavage, and it occurs to me that it is the very thing that made her that will be the thing to finally take her down. Evelyn catches my eye and smiles. It is a sincere smile, a kind smile. There is something almost nurturing about it, as if she is looking at me to see how I’m doing, as if she cares. And then, in an instant, I realize that she does.