“I’m sorry,” I said. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and began cleaning up the mess. The air filled with the scent of wine. Lisa seemed almost paralyzed. She stood in the middle of the floor, not trying to help, not doing anything, really. She just watched me work. “Move back,” I said. “Let me get the glass up.”

Lisa backed up woodenly against the far counter, her hand still at her throat, while I picked up the shards of glass with the damp paper towel.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“I think I got it all,” I said, straightening up. A pinprick of pain pierced my right shoulder. I threw the paper towels and shards of glass into the trash and washed my hands, then turned to face Lisa, who looked away from me, one hand wiping away tears on the side of her face. She wasn’t wearing her Michelle Obama hair. Her natural hair, with its short curls and coils in a halo around her face, made her look younger and more vulnerable, and for the first time since meeting her, I felt sympathy for her. For the first time since meeting her, I felt as though I was the one with the power.

“Are you okay?” I asked. The words came out more gently than I’d anticipated.

Lisa drew in a shaky breath. “Just…” She glanced at her phone, as if remembering the picture of her father, but she didn’t mention it. “Nothing’s going very smoothly,” she said instead. She moved to the cabinet over the dishwasher and took out another glass, then poured herself more wine. She looked at me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s rude of me to drink in front of you.”

“It’s fine,” I said. It was.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“I am.” I walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out a yogurt. I was more interested in learning what was going on with Lisa than I was in fixing myself something to eat. I got a spoon and sat down at the table across from her. “What’s not going smoothly?” I asked.

Lisa drew in a breath. “One of Judith Shipley’s paintings and two of Ernie Barnes’s that my father loaned out to another gallery have been delayed and might not make it here in time for the opening,” she said. “And the roofer had an accident and is now backed up. The workers lost half a day when they built your stretcher … which I know is not your fault,” she added hurriedly. “But still, they’re behind. And you’re…” She offered me a sad, apologetic smile. “You’re a novice in an unfair position. I know that. I want you to know that I understand that. That my expectations of you are completely unreasonable. We’re both in an untenable position. And we both stand to lose so much.”