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surprise when Andrea said, looking right into Margaret’s eyes, “What have you been painting, Curtis?”
    â€œI’ve been busy with all kinds of things,” said Curtis.
    If you didn’t know him it sounded like the truth.
    â€œThat’s great,” said Webber.
    Andrea knew how empty the studio was. “What sort of things are you painting now? More oils, or maybe acrylics. Or maybe watercolors, or drawings.”
    â€œYep,” said Curtis, so cheerfully noncommittal that they all laughed.
    â€œI think you’re not painting at all,” said Andrea. “I think you can’t paint with Margaret’s help any more than you could paint without her.”
    Curtis smiled. It was not a nice smile.
    â€œListen to me,” said Andrea. “Good heavens! As though I knew what I was talking about.”
    Curtis told her that he didn’t mind.
    â€œI really look forward to seeing some new work,” said Andrea. “Not that I understand much about art—”
    â€œI have a print of yours,” said Webber. “One of the few things I kept after the divorce. A really wonderful print I wouldn’t part with for the world.”
    Margaret put her hand over his, and gave him a look she knew he must have understood, a look that expressed thanks and, at the same time, just hinted at a question: what on earth is a decent man like you doing with my mother?
    Except she didn’t just hint at it. She came right out and said it, to her surprise. Webber laughed, and Andrea laughed, too, careful not to crinkle her eyes and give herself more wrinkles, but Curtis did not laugh.
    Margaret felt now that it had been wrong to smash an image of Buddha. Such an image was sacred. It would not be so wrong to smash one of these Italian plates over her mother’s head, although she refrained from doing so.
    â€œBecause it’s true,” said Curtis.
    They were alone. The afternoon was late. Curtis had paced, helped with the dishes, sat at the piano. He had changed out of his broadcloth dress shirt and worsted slacks into jeans and a gray T-shirt. It was what he used to wear when he was painting. He dressed like this often, but it did not mean that he was about to begin work again.
    She wanted only for him to be happy. And she was afraid this was going to end. The way she felt about Curtis had nothing to do with the facile, easy relationships she had enjoyed with men in the past. She felt rooted to Curtis, bound to him. She had wondered, as a girl, what love would be like. She had believed, in a half-considered way, that there would be one person, one man, and she would know when she had found him.
    Now it frightened her. She could please him, but she couldn’t help him—she knew this. And yet, he had allowed her to pretend. She had allowed herself to pretend. Someday he would be happy again.
    Months ago she had begun dropping hints in public, implying that Curtis had stopped going to parties and galleries because he was working on something new. She had allowed herself to believe that the innocent lie would cause Curtis to begin painting again, as though a wish could be so easily fulfilled. She had wanted to help Curtis. Now Margaret wished she had kept silent. She felt the weight of public curiosity, people wondering what Curtis was painting, and when it would be finished.
    Curtis played a tape of some of his music, languid, moody piano, discordant leaps, interludes. Margaret was fond of the pieces, but she understood that they were a replacement for the one thing that really mattered—the art he could no longer create.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter if you paint,” she said, hating the words as she spoke them.
    He punched the tape player and the machine fell silent.
    They were quiet for a moment, and then she said. “Sometimes I wish she really knew what I thought of her.”
    â€œDon’t.”
    â€œI can’t help it. She doesn’t know anything