“Listen, I’m truly sorry about trespassing in your studio,” I said with what I hoped sounded like remorse. “I didn’t know what to do. Tyler gave me the barn, but it’s not usable. I respect that I’m a guest here. But I am completely at your mercy. I’m desperate.”

“You know what…don’t worry about it. These are good,” she said, turning back to another panel, letting her palm hover over the wet, wavy surface of the oil. “How long again?”

“Three months.”

“We’ll find you another space. I need to be back in here”—she glanced at a calendar on the wall—“before June fifteenth.” She turned and looked out the window, crossing her arms over her white overalls. “Rats,” she continued. “That barn needs to be torn down. Tyler should have never given it to you. He can be combative. Don’t take it personally.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I can’t move these yet, though. I need another week or two. Is that okay?”

She nodded and scribbled her cellphone number on a piece of paper.

“Call me when you’re ready. I’ll let you get back to it,” she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door. “We usually do sundowners at the Mission.”

We. I wondered if Tyler was back. Not exactly an invitation, but close enough.

“Cool. See you,” I replied, plugging in my headphones. Briefly, I let myself wear the slender thrill of inclusion before turning back to Prudence, and then I zeroed in and the day disappeared behind me. At some point the sun completed its arc across the lake and began to sink into the horizon. I stepped back, wrapped my palette knives in plastic, scrubbed my hands with a turpentine rag, and marched toward the restaurant.

*  *  *

I’d seen so many images of the Mission, of its scarred wooden floors and bedraggled red velvet curtains, of its massive round tables and the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the lake, of its deck covered in a long line of wooden Adirondack chairs, that walking toward the real thing felt both jarringly surreal and slightly disappointing.