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Clara swished her hands back and forth and let her mind wander to her favorite fantasy The director of the Museu on her door His car would have stalled out in the bitterly cold temperatures, and he’d need help

Clara could see it all He’d come into the house and she’d ive it to him he’d have disappeared Into her studio She’d find hi

He’d be weeping at the beauty, the pain, the brilliance of her art

‘Who did these?’ he’d ask, not bothering to wipe the tears away

She’d say nothing, just let hireat artist was before hireatest artist of her generation, or any other The , brilliant artist that ever lived, anywhere, any ti if not fair, she’d show him Peter’s studio, and the chief curator of MOMA would be polite But there’d be no doubt She was the real talent in the family

Clara hurab the handle of the rock as though you’re going to shake hands’ She was bending over hiht ar both forward at the sa the way Don’t shove it, mind Just release’

Beauvoir looked down the curling rink to her stone at the far end It suddenly seemed very far away

Gaht hand back, the rock threatening to overbalance him already Beauvoir re his boots begin to slip This couldn’t be right

The rock thu he’d soht ar scra

Beauvoir fell flat on the ice, arrip

‘Whale oil beef hooked,’ said Billy Willia about the ht before It’d been a while since she’d watched a video Almost all their movies were on DVD, mostly because Peter’s favorite videos were ruined He’d kept pausing them at his favorite spots to watch over and over and the tape had stretched Gone wonky

Clara sat up in the bath, bits of fragrant herbs clinging to her body Could that be it?

‘Honey, Moift’ Peter walked in holding the phone Clara waved hilared at Peter