there might be a stick or two, partially burned and black as charcoal. She abandoned the idea immediately, but it formed again, a foolish, dangerous rebellion that could burn down the clinic. At the very least she would never have another fire in her room, no matter how cold the weather.
She made her way to the fireplace and placed her palms against the opening. It was glass, as she’d expected from the noises Karen had made opening and closing it. She found the handles to pull it apart and was rewarded with a screech as the panels parted. She knelt on the hearth and held her palms against the opening. The heat was minimal. The fire must have been small, just as Karen had said.
She knew she might get singed, but she didn’t care. She lowered her hands and felt along the seam between the tile hearth and brick lining. At first she was unsuccessful, but as she inched forward, she felt a piece of wood that was cool to the touch. She investigated it carefully with her fingertips. It seemed to be about two inches in diameter, more kindling than log. She gripped it in her right hand and inched her left along its length. It grew hotter as she progressed, until she drew scorched fingertips back in alarm.
She guessed that the tip was still glowing. She lifted the stick higher and gently ground the tip against the floor of the fireplace for a moment. Then she inched her hand along its length again. She repeated the ritual several times until she was finally satisfied. She lifted it higher and waved it in front of her face. The kindling was barely smoking now, not actively alight, and most likely well on its way to becoming ash.
What did it matter if she was imagining what this makeshift charcoal pencil could do? She couldn’t see the result. It was the motion that mattered, the translation of the visions in her mind.
She stood and realized she was trembling with excitement. How much of it was the thrill of the mutineer and how much the thrill of the artist? She didn’t know or care. She was about to transform an unthinkable situation.
She chose the widest stretch of wall, one without pictures or shelves to block her movements. She stood an arm’s length away and wondered what color the wall was painted. She wished that she had asked Karen or Bard. She imagined it as white and realized it didn’t matter, since she would never see what she was about to draw, except in her own mind.
And she doubted that Dr. Jeffers would hold showings.
She spoke out loud. “I’m just glad it’s not wallpaper.”
She took another deep breath, and the glowing embers of her imagination burst into flame.
3
On the morning after her visit to Julia, Maisy was awakened by pounding on her front door. She was at her most energetic and creative late at night. Unless she was forced to, she rarely rose before ten. The bedside clock said seven.
She rolled over and felt for Jake’s warm body, but the other side of the bed was empty. For a moment she thought she might ignore the summons, then it sounded again, louder and more insistent.
She sat up and tried to remember what day it was. When that proved an impossible task she swung her legs over the bedside and felt for her slippers. She grabbed a royal-purple satin bathrobe on her way out the door and fluffed her perm with stiff fingertips as she navigated the stairs. When she peered out the stairwell window and saw who was standing at the front door, she sighed. But it was nine years too late to crawl back under the covers.
The door wasn’t locked. She swung it open and peered at her son-in-law through heavy-lidded eyes. Bard Warwick was convinced that if Maisy simply adjusted her time clock, the rest of her life would fall into place.
“Has something happened to Julia or Callie?” she asked.
“You tell me.”
She stepped back and he entered. He was dressed for business in a dark suit and patterned tie topped with a navy London Fog. She noticed for the first time that it was drizzling and his dark hair was beaded with moisture.
In Maisy’s mind Bard was the best and worst Virginia had to offer. He was athletic and intelligent, self-disciplined and stuffed with both Southern manners and charm. What he wasn’t was particularly straightforward or altruistic.
Bard’s view of himself was like a humorous tourist map. The city in question was the center of the universe, towering above other inconsequential dots like Los Angeles, Hong Kong or London. From birth he had been given everything a boy could ask for, and while those advantages might humble another man, to Bard they were simply tools that had been provided for his convenience.
She was afraid Julia was yet another blessing placed in his path. A man to whom everything came too easily was often a man without a frame of reference.
“Since I’m up now, we might as well have coffee.” She trudged toward the kitchen, aware that her son-in-law had already judged her early-morning attire and found it wanting.
“I don’t want coffee. I’m on my way to the airport. I just want a quick chat, Maisy.”
“I can’t talk without coffee in my hand. Not before noon.”
She supposed he was following her as she wound her way through a hallway cluttered with odds and ends she’d picked up along life’s amazing journey. She turned right and heard him behind her. In the kitchen she gestured toward a seat at the table, then opened the freezer to remove the coffee.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
He sat gingerly, as if he wasn’t sure what he would find if he swung his legs under the table. The house was never dirty, but the hallway wasn’t the only part that was cluttered. Maisy was a collector. Not a pack rat with bundles of newspapers or old cardboard boxes, but a collector of ceramic figurines, scraps of lace, buttons, gloves and quilt squares, lithographs and discarded books. She saw stories in everything, felt vibrations of lives lived and emotions experienced when she held someone’s beloved treasure in her hands. Bard saw it as one step from mania.
“I’m told you visited Julia yesterday.”
She carried the coffee can to the pot and fished in the drawer below it for a filter. She scooped away birthday candles, coasters, balls of string and pizza coupons before she realized she was looking in the wrong drawer. “I did. You’ve filed her away like yesterday’s mail, Bard.”
“That’s a colorful way to put it, but not one bit true. She needs help, and I don’t know what else to do.”
For a moment she was taken aback. He sounded genuinely overwhelmed, something she hadn’t expected. “She needs to be with people who love her, not with strangers.”
“Maisy, in the years I’ve known you, you’ve been a musician, a Mary Kay spokeswoman, a publicist for some Eastern guru with bad breath and dirty feet, a vegetarian and a holy roller. When were you ever a psychologist?”
“It doesn’t take a psychologist, Bard. It takes good common sense.”
To his credit he did not point out that no one thought common sense was Maisy’s strong suit. “Do you know what your daughter did last night?”
“I feel sure you’re about to tell me.”
“She scratched pictures on her wall. She took a piece of firewood out of the fireplace—the God damned fireplace I’m
