“Yeah? What made you change your mind?”
“I had one of those heart-to-heart talks with Seraphina. The uncomfortable kind.”
“Sure, I’ve had those before,” I said. “When they say something so obvious that you can’t believe you didn’t figure it out yourself?”
“Yep, just like that.”
“What did she say?” I asked, even though it was none of my business.
“She said I should stop punishing myself for Jon's death and start living again, and I told her I didn’t know how, and she said maybe I should try a meeting and see if that helps.” She took in a breath after such a long and rapid sentence. “So I’m going to.” Flushing, she reached out to pet Poe’s head.
I waited a beat before I said, “I’m glad. You’re too smart and funny and beautiful to be living any other way than out loud and unapologetic.”
Her mouth dropped open. Poe shifted in my arms, looking at Delphine, as if waiting for her to say something back to me.
“That’s a really nice thing to say,” Delphine said after a second or two. “And I have a feeling that comes natural to you. You just know what to say and how to make people feel … good. I’m not great at reciprocating. But you’re … kind of like the painting that makes it easier to breathe.”
“See? Now, that was a ten out of ten on the making me feel good scale,” he said.
We stared into each other’s eyes for a moment too long. Like our touch, she drew away first.
“I should get back.” Delphine gestured toward the main room.
“And I should get this absolute tyrant back to the shop,” I said. “Thanks for walking me through the exhibit. Really impressive.”
She thanked me, and I followed her out of her office, with Poe still in my arms. A few guests smiled at us on the way out. Madison waved. Esme winked at me. I have no idea why.
Outside, the evening air was warm and smelled like salt. Poe was heavy in my arms, already half asleep, completely indifferent to the chaos he’d caused.
“You’re a menace,” I told him.
He purred.
“So now you purr?”
He didn’t reply.
7
DELPHINE
The morning after Maren’s show at my gallery, I woke late to sun streaming in though the open window, bringing the scents of seaweed and cedar. I sat up, yawning, my eyes itchy from sleeping with the windows open. Pollen counts were high this time of year, especially given the number of flowers I had planted in my garden. For a moment, I was myself on any ordinary morning, thinking about coffee and what I had to do for the day. Until I remembered the conversation with Dorian. The one where I’d confessed way too much. I should never have had that glass of wine with Maren before the opening. It had made my tongue much too loose.
Why had I told him all that? I’d violated my own rule about keeping one’s dirty laundry to one’s self. In my defense, he had this uncanny ability to get me to talk. It might have been the way he listened so carefully, those pale blue eyes emitting empathy and compassion. There was a quiet strength about him too. A man who had been through some hard things but hadn’t let them define his life. A gentle fighter. He pulled me to him without even trying.
That had not happened in a long time. Actually, it had only happened to me once. Jon. Freshman year of college, there hewas, in a painting class. We’d started talking one day and never really stopped. Four years later, we were out of school and he suggested we get married. I didn’t disagree, although it wasn’t something that was important to me. I’d had an independent streak from the moment I was born. According to my mother anyway, which is somewhat suspect because she didn’t like me very much. To be fair, I didn’t care for her much either. When she died last year, I’d been shocked. I shouldn’t have been. She smoked two packs of cigarettes a day since she was in her twenties. Not to mention her love of fast food and cheap whiskey. We hadn’t spoken since Jon’s funeral, where she’d lambasted me at my lowest point. Or what I had thought was my lowest point. It was actually when she said my husband’s suicide was my fault—yes, that was the lowest of the low. Like I didn’t already think that. Like that’s what you need from your mother on the day you bury your husband.
Sometimes I wondered if she even remembered what she’d said to me that day. I’d had an open bar at the wake. My mother never passed up free booze. Or really any booze at all. It didn’t matter now. I could never ask her.
I made my bed first thing every day without fail. Lila had found the bed for me, and I’d fallen in love with the upholstered, tufted linen headboard. I'd dressed it in layers of white and cream that made it feel like sinking into a cloud. A lonely cloud, but whatever. After that, I spritzed water on the hanging plants on the wall above the headboard and told them what a good job they were doing. Trailing greenery softened the room and made it feel like the garden had crept inside, even during cold and dreary winter months. The book from Dorian was face down on the bedside table. I’d read another chapter before falling asleep, and, I had to admit, it was exquisitely written and made my soul ache in a way that felt universal and specific at the same time.
I heard Annie in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, probably making herself a bowl of bran flakes. She had soccer practice this morning. I’d promised to let her drive there. She’d recently gotten her learner’s permit and was anxious to drive whenever she could. I was not a fan. But I kept a lid on it for once and simply gritted my teeth and grabbed onto the strap that hung over the passenger side door when I thought we were on the verge of dying.
I got in the shower, then dressed in a pair of my overalls. Today I’d spend in my potter’s shed and not at the gallery. In the summers, my assistant covered for me twice a week so I didn’t have to close the shop when I wanted a day off. There were a lot of tourists visiting this time of year and many of them had deep pockets and a love for art. We didn’t want to risk losing any business simply because I liked to take some days off to spend with Annie and our friends while the weather was so lovely.
Annie, bless her, had already put on a pot of coffee. She’d recently announced that she would like to start drinking a cup in the mornings. I’d argued that it might stunt her growth, to which I was given a humored eye roll. I needn’t have worried anyway. What she drank was actually steamed milk with a few tablespoons of coffee instead of the other way around.
The arched French doors in the kitchen were open, the stone path that wound through the garden to my potting shed visible in the morning light. Lila had helped me choose cream-colored cabinets and open-shelving on one wall, where I kept Jon’s grandmother's china and a collection of ironstone pitchers. Exposed beams ran the length of the ceiling, painted white. The counters were marble Lila had salvaged from one of her clients who had expanded their kitchen. Lila and I were practically giddy when we realized they could be cut to fit my kitchen. One of the things we’d kept the same were the floors, simply finishing the wide pine. After years of use, they were warm and scuffedand impossible to keep perfectly clean. I tried not to care, but I’m me, so I did.
