Fox River. Emilie Richards

things are in a row on the shelf above the radiator. Will you need help?”

      “I’ll manage.”

      “Then how about if I leave you in the bathroom first, then come back for you in a few minutes? Unless you’re planning to take a bath?”

      “I’ll shower in the morning.”

      Julia found everything she needed and got ready for bed. Back in her room, she felt along the foot rail of the bed for her nightgown.

      “I can leave you alone to undress and come back later,” Maisy said.

      “Thanks, but I think I’m going right to sleep.”

      “Actually, I need your help with something.”

      “Then stay while I change.”

      Julia heard the bedsprings creak. The bed, like nearly everything else in the house, was an antique, which Maisy had always called “preloved.”

      Maisy was silent while Julia undressed, until she got down to her bra and panties. “Honey, you’re so thin.”

      “I’m at a disadvantage here. I can’t see you, remember?”

      “Trust me, thin is not what you’d see.”

      “I haven’t been hungry since the accident. But I’ll gain it back.”

      “It’s very Audrey Hepburn.”

      Julia managed a smile. “Do you remember all the times we watched My Fair Lady when I was growing up?”

      “It was one of the few things we agreed on.”

      Julia would have liked to be able to argue, but Maisy was right. They had shared so little, not just during the normal turbulence of adolescence, but throughout Julia’s childhood. She had never quite understood it. They were very different people, but they loved each other. They loved Ashbourne, too, and, in their individual ways, the culture of Ridge’s Race. But for all that, Julia had never felt they stood on common ground, or even that they could reach each other across the divide.

      At Callie’s birth, her first prayer had been that her own daughter wouldn’t drift from her as she had drifted from Maisy.

      “I’ve thought about this a lot.” Maisy must have shifted, because the springs creaked once more. “Your hand slipped out of mine when you were little, and I never found it again.”

      Julia slid the nightgown over her head and felt its familiar swish against her hips. But the whisper of silk was the only familiar thing about the last moments.

      “I love you, Maisy,” she said tentatively. “You know I do.”

      “That’s never been an issue.”

      “I don’t know what else to say. We’re very different. Maybe I’m more like my father?”

      “In little ways, maybe. He wasn’t a man to talk about his feelings.”

      “Neither are you,” Julia said gently. “Although you will talk about any other subject under the sun.”

      “Harry had a way of drawing people to him that neither of us has mastered. He walked into a room and the light went on. Not because he worked at being charming, because he was so confident.” She paused. “Powerful. He was powerful, and anyone who met him wanted to live in his sphere.”

      Julia found her way around the bed and sat on the edge. “I don’t remember anything about him.”

      “I know. Jake was all the father you ever really knew.”

      “Enough father for anyone. The best.”

      Julia suspected that the window into her mother’s feelings was closing. But it had been a beginning and something to ponder. “You said you needed my help?”

      Maisy didn’t answer immediately. When she did, she almost sounded embarrassed. “Julia, I’m writing a novel.”

      Julia supposed if any of the mothers of her friends had admitted such a thing, their daughters would have been stunned. The mothers of Ridge’s Race gave charity teas and served on committees, they shepherded children and grandchildren to horse and pony shows and steeplechase events, entertained friends, oversaw the baking of ham and the assembly of salads for tailgate parties. They did not, for the most part, pursue their muse.

      Maisy had always pursued hers with a vengeance.

      Julia thought back to her mother’s last creative attempts. “You got tired of sculpture?”

      “I was a failure.”

      “Not so. I thought some of the things you did were interesting.”

      “Julia, we both know what interesting means in the art world. Spare me false praise.”

      “I liked the bust of Callie. I really did.”

      “You were the only person who knew it was Callie, and that’s only because you let her pose for me.”

      “So you’ve moved to writing. Didn’t you try your hand at poetry when I was in college?”

      “No matter what I wrote, I rhymed. I shamed myself.”

      “Well, if you’re telling me this because you want my approval, you know you have it. I think it’s great.”

      “I’m glad to hear that. I want to read what I’ve written to you.”

      Julia sobered. “I’m not going to be much of an audience, Maisy.”

      “I know you have a lot on your mind.”

      Maisy had tried to be honest with her. Now Julia tried to be honest with her mother. “I feel like I’m putting my life back together, or taking it apart, I’m not sure which. I feel like I’m curled up in a hard little ball, the way a porcupine does when it’s under attack. Everything that’s happening inside me right now is centered around me and my life. I feel selfish, but there it is. I don’t know if I even have the ability to think about anybody else.”

      “I understand.”

      “I’m glad.”

      “I still would appreciate it if you listened to my story. I’ll tell you why,” Maisy continued before Julia could object. “I think you need something outside yourself to think about. Just for a small part of each day. I understand what you’re going through. I do, as well as anyone could. But I also know you need a break from the crisis, and it’s going to be hard to get one. You can’t read. You can’t paint. You can’t ride. You can listen to music or television, but I think while you do, you’ll be worrying and digging away at the things inside you.”

      “That’s all I’m good for right now.”

      “Your heart and soul need a resting place. You need to heal a little before you move on to the next thought. You need time to heal. Is this making any sense?”

      To Julia, what made sense was that her mother, in her own confusing way, was trying to help her. Right at the beginning Maisy had offered her a home, solace, the use of Maisy’s own eyes and hands as she cared for her. Now she was offering two things more. Respite and a piece of Maisy’s own heart. Julia, as an artist, understood that every creative endeavor, even the most amateur, was a gift of self.

      How could she refuse to listen?

      “I don’t think you’ll find it that painful, Julia,” Maisy said dryly. “You should see the look on your face. I swear.”

      “Okay, maybe you’re right. I’d like to do something for you if I can, in return for everything you’ve done. But do you want me to give my opinion? Because that might be tough on both of us.”

      “Not really. Mostly I need a captive audience. Come here and get under the covers. It’s cold, and you’re not wearing enough.” Maisy stood, and the mattress lifted.

      “When