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In the isolation of her study, she sat back in the armchair, put her feet on the ottoman, and drew the quiet around her like a blanket.
Soon they would all leave; the house would be empty again. In the near darkness, she traced the two hearts of the pendant at her neck with her fingertips. It would be thuddingly empty.
After a while, voices down the hall murmured. The sounds came closer, and she stood and darted into the dark alcove by the closet, just in case. The hum of the voices separated into words, then sentences.
“And this is her office.”
Are you kidding? Leigh was giving a tour? She tried to quiet her breathing. Why hadn’t she closed the door behind her? She could edge her way into the closet, but they would hear the door slide. It had been binding forever—how many times had she meant to ask Harris to oil the rails?
“How can she stand staying here?” a woman’s voice she didn’t recognize asked.
“Just tragic,” echoed another, familiar but unrecognizable.
Mm. Tsk. Cluck. Utterances of sympathy and fear. But mostly, of relief at their own good fortune—it had been someone else’s husband, not theirs.
The sounds stopped mid-conversation. “Quinn?” Leigh’s surprised voice asked.
Quinn sighed, louder than she intended.
“Oh, my. What are youdoingup here? You were just in the living room a minute ago . . . We got to talking about your writing and the movie—I wanted to show off your Hollinger.”
With a fake flourish, Quinn pointed toward the award on her shelf, a copper sculpture of a spiral stack of books.
There it is. Are you done here now?
The procession of hugs, pat-pats, and apologies from the sheepish group started immediately. Leigh was the last.
“Come downstairs. Please,” she said, holding Quinn’s arms at the elbows. More widow code:I’m trying hard to help you, but you’re not cooperating.
“In a minute. I need to freshen up.”
Freshen up, who said that anymore?
Someone who wished she would go downstairs and find that everyone in her house had magically vanished, that’s who.
In the bathroom, she splashed a few handfuls of cold water on her cheeks, careful not to wet her mascara, the first makeup she had put on in over a year. It wasn’t her idea. When Leigh arrived earlier, she suggested Quinn apply some—“at least lipstick and mascara—you’ll feel so much better.”
Right. As if a swish of lip color and thicker lashes would fill the hollowness. But she did it, to show Leigh she was trying. Trying for what, though, she wasn’t sure.
This time when she descended the back stairway, his voice stopped her as she reached the breakfast nook off the kitchen. She stood still to listen.
He was talking to the caterers. Of course he was—on his show, he was the guy who tagged along with chefs and home cooks to the local market, wherever local was in that episode—and later joined them in their kitchen to chop and cook and talk about the food.
When she was adaptingMarket Dayinto the screenplay, Leigh had suggested bringing him on board to get the details of the market scenes just right. The team thought it was a great idea, and since he and Leigh were longtime friends, he had eagerly agreed to help.
The talking stopped, and he came to stand beside her at the dark octagonal windows by the table for two she no longer used. Another reminder, another empty place.
The amber beer bottle and wet blue napkin were still in his hand. Before, she would have offered him a fresh drink and a new napkin that didn’t stain his fingers. Now? Who cared about being polite.
“Hey. I thought I saw you come down.” His voice was deep and resonant; she felt it as much as she heard it. He nodded toward the steps. “How are you holding up, considering you have people traipsing all over your house?” Maybe he had noticed the tour group earlier. “Do you even know everyone?” he asked.
“Most. The rest, no idea.”
His laugh came out as a huff. “I’m not sure what she was thinking.” He was quiet for a beat, then added, “I’m sorry.”
“You know Leigh.”
“I do. She tries, but sometimes she hits the wrong note.”
