I lead her across the living room, holding her hand behind my back, so that I can navigate the two of us between chairs, sofas, end tables, over Persian rugs, through the passageway and into the kitchen. I help her find and carefully place herself in a chair, one of four at the oval-shaped oak table. She turns the wrong way, forcing the chair outward; I push her legs around and in, under the table's edge. The sun streams through the bank of windows. The brightness of the light and its warmth, on a freezing winter's day, make her smile. She turns toward me. The uneven pupils in Joan Kleinman's green-brown eyes look above and beyond my head, searching for my face. Gently I turn her head towards me. I grin as she raises her eyebrows in recognition, shakes her long brown hair and the soft warmth of her sudden happiness lights up her still strikingly beautiful face. "Wonderful!" she whispers. "I'm a Palo Alto, a California girl. I like it warm."
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