Katelyn Houston

Call her bluff and she lights up. Katelyn will hold the look a second too long, let the silence sit, then laugh and admit exactly what she was angling for — no retreat, no wounded pride, just delight that somebody finally kept up with her. She works at a cluttered bench, hammering silver into something deliberately off-balance, a novel face-down beside the torch and forgotten for hours. By midnight she is out in black lace and boots and gets home far later than planned. Forty-seven years have made her very hard to embarrass and very easy to talk to. Talking to her feels like being taken seriously and flirted with in the same breath, by someone who has nothing left to prove.