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An iron sign on the brick wall reads: Riverside Estates, built in 1876. My imagination runs wild, envisioning myself as a party guest arriving in a horse-drawn carriage at a mansion as beautiful as this. Women dressed in elaborate gowns and men in finely tailored suits anticipating the excitement of the evening’s events. It must have been an enchanting and romantic time.
At the top of the stairs stands an elegant older woman in a champagne-tulle robe over a silk dinner gown. A long cigarette holder with a wispy plume of smoke rests between her fingers—a partially-consumed cocktail within the grasp of her other hand. Her heavy Jean Harlow makeup and spider-leg-like eyelashes are a feeble attempt to hold on to her youth. Her weathered skin, wiry white hair, and saggy wrinkles overshadow her once-effortless beauty. “Jade, darling, welcome to Blythe House!” she says, greeting us in a transatlantic accent with her arms unfolding.

