Three Sisters. Сьюзен Мэллери

about the yard,” she said. “I’ve never been much of a gardener, but I guess I have to start soon.”

      “It’s prime growing season,” Boston told her. “There’s a nursery in town. I can get you the name of a woman who works there. She does landscaping on the side.”

      “You and my other neighbor have set a pretty high standard,” Andi said with a grin. “I don’t want to let the neighborhood down.”

      “You won’t.”

      Boston studied the other woman. Light and shadow played across her face, highlighting her bone structure. She was pretty, Boston thought, more interested in shapes and forms than what the world considered attractive. Andi’s hair, a tumbling mass of curls, would be difficult to capture on canvas. But her eyes—a brilliant green—would draw people in.

      “You wouldn’t happen to know a reasonably priced decorator, would you?” Andi asked. “I’m going to need some help pulling together the office. I want bright colors and a welcoming space. Going to the doctor can be scary for kids. I want them to feel comfortable when they come to see me.”

      Boston thought about the floor plan of Andi’s house and the plans Zeke had shown her for the remodeling. “A mural,” she said automatically, seeing a jungle scene on the wall. “Bright colors that can flow through to the other rooms. Blues and greens with pops of reds and yellows. A jungle. Birds. Big parrots. Maybe fish in a river and large cats with eyes that glow.”

      She paused. “Sorry. I got carried away.”

      “Don’t be sorry, I love it. I’m great with the medical end of things. I’ve ordered the equipment. What I don’t know how to do is the waiting area and the front office. Also, there’s going to be a long hallway.”

      “You could do a different animal on every door,” Boston said, feeling a surge of creative enthusiasm. “Pick a flooring with a green tone to carry through the jungle theme. If you want to go that way.”

      Zeke’s truck pulled into the driveway next door. Andi glanced at it, then back at her.

      “I would love to talk about this some more, another time. Would you be open to that?”

      “Sure. It would be a fun project. I can give you some ideas, maybe draw a few sketches.”

      “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in giving me a price for a mural?” Andi asked. “I’ve seen your work in your house and it’s beautiful.”

      Boston hesitated. She hadn’t done much more than a few textile projects in months. Her days were spent in other ways. Designing and then painting a mural would be a challenge. Zeke would tell her it would be good for her to get out of her rut. To let the project take her away.

      “Let me think about it,” Boston murmured, coming to her feet. “I have a lot on my plate right now.”

      A complete lie, but it offered her a safe retreat if the idea of the mural overwhelmed her. She knew if she accepted the job, she would have to see it through. That would be pressure, and these days she still felt breakable. That’s what loss had done to her—left her as fragile as spun glass.

      “Either way, I’m happy to talk about the color scheme for your office,” she said.

      “That would be great.” Andi stood. “Thank you. And thanks for dinner.”

      “Enjoy.” Boston went down the stairs and started for home.

      Zeke stood by his truck, waiting for her. He smiled when he saw her.

      “Making nice with the new neighbor?”

      “I took her some dinner.”

      His brown eyes brightened with anticipation. “Mac and cheese?”

      “Yes. It’s in the oven.”

      He swept her into his arms and pulled her close. “This is why I stay married to you. For the pasta.”

      She let herself sink into him, into the familiar combination of strength and heat. In that moment, all was well and she could breathe. Could almost forget that she might shatter at any moment.

      Then they would fight, because they fought often these days. Anger was Zeke’s way of trying to get through to her. She wouldn’t engage and he would leave. After he left, she would paint and eventually he made his way home. Their life had become uneven. Like a wagon with one square wheel. She was aware of the cycle, but unsure how to break it without destroying the only thing that held them together.

      * * *

      Deanna scanned the small paintbrush and then jabbed the quantity into the computer. The Wednesday shipment had been bigger than usual, with several special orders and an entire display of yarn for Christmas.

      It was May, she thought as she picked up the second brush and scanned it. Did people really need to be thinking about Christmas now?

      She knew the answer. Crafters started early and anyone looking to knit a sweater or scarf or whatever for the holidays would, in fact, be working on it over the summer. She usually liked how the inventory of Cozy Crafts heralded the coming seasons. In truth today, everything was getting on her nerves.

      She hated Colin. That was the real problem. She’d spent most of the past two nights lying awake, mentally calling him names. She’d also made detailed lists of everything she’d ever done for him. Everything he never noticed or appreciated.

      Like her weight. She weighed exactly what she had on the day they’d gotten married. Four pregnancies, five babies and not an ounce different. Unlike Boston, who’d put on thirty pounds over her pregnancy and had never bothered to take it off.

      Deanna kept up on current events. She understood the oil crisis, could speak intelligently on current issues and attended local school board meetings. She was well read. She took excellent care of her house and her family. She baked bread, shopped organic and made nearly every damn bite of food they put in their mouths.

      And her thanks for that? Rejection. Dismissal. Threats.

      She finished adding the new delivery to inventory and set out the brushes. She sorted the yarn and quickly started a holiday display.

      Cozy Crafts was on the west side of the island, next to Island Chic, a clothing store. The clientele consisted of both tourists and locals. Deanna taught scrapbooking, basic quilting and basic knitting. She coordinated the other instructors. She’d been the one to convince Boston to give an introductory painting class two years ago. The class that had led to an article in a national travel magazine. But did any of that matter to Colin?

      She glanced toward the windows at the front of the store and thought briefly about tossing a chair through the glass. Not that the action would help her current situation, but she had to do something. Every part of her hurt. She was frustrated and scared and angry.

      Divorce. The very thought of it made her whole body clench. She didn’t want to be divorced. She didn’t want the stigma, the struggle. She didn’t want the pity or the gloating.

      Without wanting to, she remembered her mother standing in the middle of the horrible little kitchen of their disgusting, dirty house.

      “Make sure when you marry a man, you keep him,” the other woman had said. “Ain’t nothing worse than being without a man.”