“Have a good Christmas,” her mother says.

“The same to you,” the man says as the door closes again, leaving Ruth and Isabelle to ride the last floor up on their own.

The painting in the foyer is of a marsh, but when Wilson looks closely, it doesn’t look like a marsh at all. What looks like textured sunlit marsh grass from across the foyer is instead simply swatches of paint: green, gold, orange. And what looks from afar like the reflection of the sky in the water reveals itself, up close, to be a large patch of light gray. It’s no wonder he can’t paint, he thinks, though Ruth has tried again and again to get him to take a class. He would never think that the reflection of the sky was as easy as gray, or that the marsh could be painted in three colors.

He hears the elevator nearing their floor; he has changed into a fresh shirt and put a sweater on beneath his coat, and he’s left Maggie by the tree, her water dish refreshed. He glances at his watch; there are less than a couple hours left of the workday, and he wonders if it’s even worth his while to go back to the office. Though he has no place else to go, he thinks, and he can’t stay here without giving himself away. He sighs and lifts his collar as he hears the elevator reach their floor. The door opens, and Wilson sees Isabelle and Ruth inside.

He hardly has time to think before Ruth exclaims, “Wil! What are you doing home?”

“Ruth!” Wilson says. “Belle. Hi.”

Ruth and Isabelle step out of the elevator, and Wilson, though he has summoned it, lets it go without getting in. He bends to give Isabelle a kiss on the forehead, then gives his wife a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi,” Ruth says. “So?”

“So?” Wilson says, searching a mind that feels suddenly empty for some sort of excuse.

“So what are you doing home?”

“Nothing. I forgot some important papers. You’re back early. How was the art class?”

“It wasn’t,” Ruth says. “Or it won’t be anymore.” She looks down at Isabelle beside her. Isabelle sniffs and tucks her hair behind her ears; her fingers are red and swollen with cold. “Maybe, Isabelle, you should be wearing gloves,” she says. “It’s probably not good for those fingers to be so cold.”

Isabelle shrugs and leaves Ruth and Wilson standing in the foyer.

“So what papers?” Ruth asks.

“For the Levitt deal. Remember I told you about the Levitt deal, right?”

“No,” Ruth says.

Maggie has wandered into the foyer and leaned herself against Ruth. Ruth reaches down to stroke her. “And why is Maggie wet?” she asks.

“I took her out,” Wilson says.

“I see.”