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Barbara Lake is very, very pretty, is the first thing Nomura notices when she opens the door. The woman smiles tensely when she sees who it is, although it clearly takes her a second to recognize her. "I... oh, hello, Miss Nomura, come in! Come in," she says, attempting to be welcoming and stammering over her own words. There's a squareness about her shoulders that's too stiff to be natural, a look about her that says she expects a dressing-down and is prepared to take it standing up.

Admirable of her, to be so determined to accept responsibility, Nomura thinks. Certainly more than she would have done in the same position.

She dismisses that thought before it can lead her further, and inclines her head to the harried woman at the door. "Mrs. Lake, yes?" she says, voice smooth as pottery, neutral but not unkind. A little of the tension seems to melt away from her shoulders and her mouth, turning tight lips into rosebuds. It's a good look for her.

"That's me," she says, chuckling and dusting nothing off of her hands over her skirt. "Ms. Lake, though. I, um. Sorry about--this is about Jim, isn't it? I'm really sorry, he's not normally like this."

"I suppose not," says Nomura, hands clasped delicately at her waist. "There is no need for you to apologize for your son's behavior."

Barbara blinks, her face blank, and then more of the tension falls away. "Oh. I... thank you? I mean. Sorry, I should be saying--would you like to come in?"

"I would." Nomura's dark, pursed lips curve up. "I brought tea, in fact. Strickler tells me you like it, and that you could use it tonight."

Barbara's face brightens as she steps back, letting Nomura into the house. "He remembered?" Pink touches her cheeks, and she hurries to conceal the obvious little bubble of delight, and Nomura feels some small stirring of annoyance. "Are you a friend of his?"

Barbara looks nervous again. Nomura checks her face, as she often has to do in public, and realizes she's scowling. She forces her mouth back to neutrality, and shrugs. "An acquaintance." True enough. She refuses to call him 'friend,' lie or not. "He's often around to pester me for manuscripts, artifacts, whatever is in my collection."

"Yeah, I bet," says Barbara, clearly assuming the annoyance is affectionate. Nomura doesn't bother to correct her. "He's a history buff, from what I've heard. You should hear him go on."

"I have," says Nomura, and promptly changes the subject to conceal her distaste. Many, many times. "Your house is lovely, by the way." Ms., she'd said. "You live here with your son?"

Barbara brightens up again at that, and a little flicker of smugness licks up her chest. Strickler thinks he's charming, but he's not the only one who can get that look out of her.

The light plays through Barbara's red hair, turning parts of it brown and parts of it nearly blonde as she moves through the kitchen and around the corner to fuss over the kettle. Nomura can't help but follow with her eyes; she doesn't seem to notice. "Have a seat anywhere. Sorry the table's a little dusty, we, um. Don't use it much."

"It's the least dusty thing I've seen today," she says, and her smile feels a little less forced. "I do curate a museum."

Barbara laughs at that that, the kind of quick laugh from the chest that's almost a hiccup, and the smugness catches again. "Yeah, I bet you'd get used to it. What do you do in a museum, anyway?"

"Cataloguing," she says. "Arranging for new shipments, organizing exhibits." She takes a small wrapping of wax paper from one of the barely visible, but deep, pockets in her dress. "Research." None of it is wrong.

Barbara tilts her head, gathering up the sugar and a pair of teacups as the kettle begins to steam. She must have already had water heating when she answered the door. "You know, I've never really thought about it before," she says. "Tell me about it."

And just like that Nomura can feel a fountain of words rising instantly up her throat, and her jaw and tongue already poised to let the torrent loose. Don't lose your composure, she reprimands herself, you have a job to do here, but the urge to crack the cover on the knowledge brimming under the surface of her thoughts at all times is overwhelming, just as it always is. "Oh," she says, glancing down at her hands where they're folded on the table, "Don't get me started, Ms. Lake. I could go on and on, I'm afraid."

Barbara shuts off the kettle as it reaches the boiling point, pouring the water into the teacups and carrying them to the table. There's no hint of tension left, and something a bit beyond curiosity in her eyes. She's watching Nomura, now, thoughtfully, instead of responding to the little social demands and apologies that she's obligated to make, and she can't help but feel oddly self-conscious. "I don't mind. Go ahead."

The pressure of words against her teeth feels like it's about to burst. She chews the inside of her cheek and stares at her teacup, ready to stir in the tea (you brought it for a job, you have a job to do), unaccountably and suddenly nervous.

"And call me Barb," she says, smiling with real warmth, and the smug little flicker in Nomura's chest takes a hop left into something else. "Ms. Lake is for teachers and Jim's little friend Toby."

That does it.

Before she knows it Nomura is talking, and talking, and she barely even thinks of the tea as she stirs one packet into Barbara's (Barb's) cup, and another into her own. "My tea of choice," she says by way of explanation, when Barb looks confused. "It's a strong flavor and an acquired taste. I thought it would be safest to bring a kind that's a bit more popular."

"Gotcha," says Barb, winking, and raises the cup to blow on her tea as she waits for it to steep. Nomura does the same, watching her. "So anyway, you were saying about this one vase?"

"Yes," says Nomura, and dives into the words once more.