A brightly colored sign for laundry detergent, the paint flaking at the edges to reveal bits of rust, hung crooked at the bottom of the grand stairs. Emily couldn’t stop herself from going over to straighten it. When she did, she realized it was covering a fist-sized hole in the wall. She glanced back at Quinn. At what was surely a bruise under her eye.

Emily was startled by a creaking sound overhead. Was someone else in the house? Quinn looked up, on the alert, too. A pad-pad-pad soon revealed itself to be a fat calico cat that sauntered down the stairs and rubbed the side of its head against Emily’s leg. Emily reached down to pet the cat. It arched its back, paused for a moment, then slithered over to Quinn, who ignored it. Maybe the calico was the first wife’s cat.

Quinn said, “Wally’s a pack rat. You wouldn’t believe the stuff he’s got down in the basement.”

Actually, I would. Emily was sure she hadn’t said it out loud, but still Quinn gave her a close look and asked, “Don’t tell me, you’re married to one, too?”

Emily felt her face grow hot. Empathize but don’t overshare. That was Becca’s maxim. Her role was to listen and take notes. Be supportive and professional. It’s not group therapy.

“Does your husband know you’re consulting us?” Emily said, feeling an uneasy twinge. How ugly would it get if he returned unexpectedly and found Emily here?

“I told him, but does he know?” Quinn laughed. “That’s practically an existential question, because he’s not the world’s best listener.”

“I ask because it’s one of our rules. I can’t help you declutter someone else’s stuff. My partner should have explained that to you on the phone.”

“She did. And don’t worry, it’s not. I wouldn’t dare touch any of his stuff. There’d be hell to pay. Come on out to the garage. I’ll show you what I need your help dealing with.”

8

EMILY FOLLOWED QUINN through an airy open kitchen. On the pink-granite counter sat a massive copper-and-brass espresso machine. Several pizza boxes lay in the recycle bin. Vintage tin cans were lined up along the tops of the bleached-wood cabinets. On the wall, a clock with a black cat, its tail the pendulum that ticked and tocked side to side, was an advertisement for something called Black Cat shoe polish. Stuck to a bulletin board were about a dozen business cards. Emily foraged in her bag for another Freeze-Frame Clutter Kickers business card. “Mind if I pin this up for you?”

“Sure,” Quinn said. “Thanks.”

Emily used an orphaned pushpin to post her business card alongside a class calendar for the women’s fitness center in East Hartwell. Morning vinyasa yoga classes were circled in red.