might have even thought I was asleep, though it was pathetically early for that. I mean, who went to bed at six-thirty? Only someone who had nothing better to do, and if that wasn’t a depressing thought, I didn’t know what was.
Whatever, he didn’t try again. I heard the front door close and, more faintly, his engine rev. My bedroom was at the back of the house, so I couldn’t hear the crunch of his tires on the drive, but I pictured him backing around and heading out.
Only when I guessed he would be halfway down the road did I open my door. And there were my pets, lined up and waiting in a way that both warmed my heart and hit me with guilt. “Oh guys,” I said as I crouched down and reached out. “I am the worst mom.” But not for long. I had a sudden stroke of genius. “Who wants lamb stew?” The smell out here in the hall was strong.
Me, me, me, I imagined them saying, because all three ran for the stairs.
I followed but paused at the top. Immediately to my right was the loft. It overlooked the open first floor of the house and in normal times held little more than a sleep sofa and lamp. Now it was a mess of strewn clothing, empty shopping bags, and dirty drinking glasses.
Resigned, I continued on down. Liam might be a pig in the bedroom, but the kitchen was spotless. A container sat on the counter, its cover steamed and warm. The pet dishes were dripping dry on the rack, so no one actually needed food. But I had promised.
When I cracked the lid, the smell hit me hard, and it was awesome, I had to give Liam that. I spooned out bits of lamb and knelt. Hex and Jinx each took a lick before walking away. Jonah cleaned the spoon.
Me, I wasn’t hungry after eating … how many graham crackers?
I wasn’t hungry an hour later, either, because something weird was happening. Nothing worked. I went through the mail, but threw most of it out. I flipped through the latest issue of Makeup Artist, but no article caught my interest. Spotting a small UPS delivery that Liam had brought in and set aside, I did feel a germ of enthusiasm. UPS brought me little gifts. I could use a little gift now.
Eager, I broke open the box, layered back the tissue, and wrestled with bubble wrap to uncover blush, shadow, liner, and brushes, all from a new brand that I’d wanted to try. The brushes were made of synthetic fiber, which didn’t have quite the elegant touch of natural fiber, but natural fiber clumped when mixed with oil, and dry skin needed oil. I tested a blusher brush on the back of my hand, then my neck, then my face. Deciding it would be fine, I set it aside.
What to do then? My fingers itched, needing clay. But even if the studio had been open, I couldn’t risk seeing people. I’d had a home studio when Edward and I were married. But this life was to be different from that one. As many times as I had been tempted to keep a stash of clay here, I’d resisted.
Right now, I wished I hadn’t. I needed … something. The house was quiet all right, but it wasn’t the quiet I knew. The quiet tonight, as darkness slowly settled over my woods, was lonely.
I walked around.
I reached for my next book-group book, settled into the sofa, and opened to the page where I’d left off. I read two paragraphs, but my mind didn’t grasp meaning. I read them again, then put the book down.
I turned on the TV, surfed through the guide, turned it off again.
I lifted the lid of the lamb stew but covered it again without taking a bite.
Nina had asked how I handled the hours alone, the loneliness and depression. I used to do it fine. I had slogged through the worst and risen on the other side feeling good. No, not good. Great. My life had been great before all this happened.
I wanted that again. But I couldn’t roll back time. What had worked two weeks ago wouldn’t work now.
So here I sat, a prisoner in my own home.
And I deserved it, I mused, brooding as I lifted a ceramic bowl that I had thought so primitive at the time. I had enjoyed making it, though. It had been a sign of progress.