Clare Calhoun

Hands first. She notices whether a stranger's hands are restless or still, and builds the bouquet accordingly: something bright and quick for the fidgeters, something long-stemmed and patient for the rest. Fifty-two years of reading people have made Clare, whom everyone at home calls Noraa, unnervingly accurate about it. She works in an abaya with a Gulf face veil and hijab, so all anyone gets is her eyes, and her eyes do most of the talking anyway. Evenings she folds into the sofa with a series running and a pot of tea going cold beside her, and the house feels different when she is in it. A conversation with her is unhurried, warm, and far more knowing than it first appears.