down at the mahogany dining table. The creamy needlepoint on the backs and seats of the chairs was soiled, but the wood gleamed and there was a scent of lemon oil in the air. A bucket of soapy water rested on a stool near the sideboard.
“I’ve been scouring away in here all day,” Lucy said. “But no matter what I try, nothing seems to help.” She pointed with her brush. “Look at them,” she said, indicating walls covered in silk of a pink so delicate the colour seemed almost illusory. Figures were woven into the fabric: Ruben-esque women, epicurean and lush. The wall-covering must have been a treasure once, but someone had desecrated the women’s bodies. Crude breasts and genitalia were drawn in marker over the delicate lines in the fabric. Lucy had obviously been scrubbing at them; the places where she had worked were marked by ugly spoors of damp colour.
“When we were young, my mother wouldn’t allow us to eat in this room. It was for adults only,” she said. There was an intimate teasing quality in Lucy’s voice that seemed to draw us into her orbit. “But if my parents had a dinner party,” she continued, “my father would call us down to meet the guests. It was so exciting. Of course, my sisters and I would be all shined up for bed. I can still remember how soft the rug felt under my bare feet when we trooped in to be introduced. It was always so shadowy and scary in the hall, but the candles in here would be blazing.”
“ ‘Three little girls in virgin’s white, swimming through darkness, longing for light,” I said.
Lucy shot me a radiant smile. “You remembered.”
“ ‘My Daddy’s Party’ is a pretty memorable song,” I said.
“Thanks. That means a lot. Especially now.” She looked around the room, and when she spoke again, her voice quivered with rage and hurt. “I haven’t been in this room in years. Somehow, I’d hoped on this visit …” She swallowed hard. “Too late now. We’ll never get things back the way they were. Metaphors aren’t much fun in real life.”
“Perhaps you should get professionals in to do this work,” Hilda said gently. “As you’re discovering, a home is a powerful symbol for those who live within it.”
Lucy ran her fingers through her hair. “I guess that’s why my sister Signe thinks trying to put things right in these rooms is good therapy for me. My other sister says it’s a way of making up for my sins of omission.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter what I think. The prodigal daughter doesn’t get a vote.” She laughed sadly. “I’m forgetting my manners. Can I get you a drink? The Waterford crystal my father bought my mother on their honeymoon is pretty much a write-off, but there must be a jam-jar or two around.”
“We’re fine,” Hilda said. “Mrs. Kilbourn and I aren’t planning to stay, but, Lucy, there is something I’d like to talk to you and your sisters about. Will they be able to join us?”
“Signe will. Tina isn’t seeing people right now.”
Lucy left to get her sister, and I walked over and looked out at the scene framed by the window. Zinnias, asters, and marigolds, prides of the late summer garden, shimmered in the gold September haze. A boy pushing a power-mower made lazy passes across the lawn. Heat hung in the air. Hilda came and stood beside me. The scene was idyllic, but I could feel my friend’s fury.
“Why would anyone set that poor woman the Sisyphean task of cleaning up this disaster and tell her it was her way of making up for what she did or failed to do?” she asked.
“She does seem to be near the breaking point,” I said.
“My sister doesn’t break.”
The voice, as huskily melodic as Lucy’s, came from behind us. I turned, expecting to greet a stranger, but I knew the woman standing in the entrance to the dining room. Eli Kequahtooway had introduced us. She was his therapist.
“Hello, Dr. Rayner,” I said.
She gazed at me, perplexed. “You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, “I don’t remember …”
“There’s no reason to,” I said. “We only met once – at the Cornwall Centre. I’m Joanne Kilbourn, a friend of Eli Kequahtooway’s.”
“Of course,” she said. “I remember thinking Eli must be fond of you to bring you over to me.”
“I hope he is,” I said. “I’m certainly fond of him. Dr. Rayner, this is my friend Hilda McCourt.”
She