up Pepin Hill cradling semi-automatic weapons in their arms. There was an erotic dream that involved Edward and was frighteningly coherent. And then there was the one about Lily, which had nothing to do with the fear of exposure and everything to do with a loss so profound that, even sprawled in bed, I was brought to my knees. I could see her. She was hurt and crying for me, reaching for me, begging for me to help. But I couldn’t get to her. First there was an opaque wall that allowed nothing through but the sound of her increasingly shrill screams, then a dense web through which I could see a distorted view of her face, then, more cruelly, a piece of plastic wrap through which I could see and hear perfectly but not pass.
I’d had this one before. Many times. As always, I woke up alone in my bed, my house, my life. When I was first here, I would wake up in tears. Now when I woke, I simply struggled for air. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat.
Leaving Jonah asleep on the bed, I went down to the living room. The cats followed. Actually, the cats led. Seeming to understand that I didn’t want to be alone, their warm little bodies crowded in, rubbing close, on my legs and in my lap the instant I curled up on the sofa. Burying my face in their fur, I held them for as long as they allowed.
No amount of makeup could hide what was inside, so while I looked outwardly normal entering the pottery studio, Kevin saw more. Half a dozen other potters were working and another had followed me up the stairs, which meant we couldn’t really talk, but that was fine. It was all about his hug. It was about taking my hand away from my hair when I went to touch my bangs for a third time in as many minutes. It was about indulging me when I did nothing but wedge. Oh, I thought about making a teapot, but my mother’s special today was butterscotch brownies, which seemed to demand a plate more than a pot, and a plate here would be empty. I thought about making a vase—the flower shop in town had fresh tulips—but my hands didn’t move. I even thought about making something Lily liked, like a harmless little bunny. My therapist had been after me to just ease up on purpose and design, and let the clay take me where it would. I hadn’t dared do that before. But I was already upset, so why not?
Apparently there was a reason why not, somewhere in the great subconscious, because I couldn’t get past wedging. And that was fine. If wedging was all I could do, I would wedge. I had always found the pulling, pushing, and slamming to be therapeutic, and it definitely was now. By the time I left the studio, I was feeling grounded.
The Spa reinforced that with its infusion of lemon verbena and, today, the whisper-soft melody of a harp.
As always, Joyce’s face lit up when she saw me. This time, though, with a small swing of her bob, she directed me to the sitting area. Michael Shanahan was rising from the sofa, resplendent in navy blazer, checked shirt, and a pink tie with little blue whales. His preppy soul was so out of place in a Zen world of scented candles, artfully angled cushions, and the tiny waterfalls that were part of the décor, that it might have been laughable, had the sight of him not brought a chill.
“Michael.” I was slightly breathless, the peace I had found at the pottery studio that quickly gone.
“Where can we talk?” he asked.
The makeup room was the obvious place, but his cologne—Burberry Brit, he had proudly announced when I commented on it once—had an unpleasant way of lingering there, and besides, I had a client in half an hour and still had to shower and dress. Hoping to keep the talk short, I gestured to the cushions he had just left. Joyce was the only one in sight, and her desk was out of earshot. Between the trickle of water and the strum of the harp, we would have privacy until new clients arrived. Their appearance would remind Michael that I had work to do.
Rather than sitting, he moved to the open area between the sofa and the soaring windows that made up the wall. I joined