Perhaps she was pushing herself. She might admit that, but she wouldn’t admit she did so to prevent herself from thinking about her night with Cliff. That had been a mistake. It wasn’t wise to dwell on mistakes.

She saw no one, spoke to no one, and told herself she was content to go on that way indefinitely.

But of course complete solitude lasts only so long. Maggie was painting the window trim in the music room when she heard the sound of an approaching car. She debated whether she might just ignore the caller until he or she went away again. As a beginning recluse, it was certainly her right. Then she recognized the old Lincoln. Setting the paint bucket on the drop cloth at her feet, Maggie went to the front door to meet Louella Morgan.

She looked even more frail this time, Maggie mused. Her skin seemed almost translucent against the tidy white hair. It was an odd, somewhat eerie combination of youth and age. As Maggie watched, Louella looked over toward the gully. For a moment she seemed like a statue, unmoving, unblinking, unbreathing. When Maggie saw her take a step toward the fenced-off section, she walked outside.

“Good morning, Mrs. Morgan.”

Louella glanced up, her eyes focusing slowly. The hand she lifted to pat at her hair shook lightly. “I wanted to come.”

“Of course.” Maggie smiled and hoped she was doing the right thing. “Please come in. I was about to fix some coffee.”

Louella walked up the sagging steps Maggie had yet to contact Bog about. “You’ve made some changes.”

Unsure which route to take, she decided on light, cheerful chatter. “Yes, inside and out. The landscapes work faster than I do.” Killer stood in the doorway, snarling and backing up. Maggie hushed him as they went inside.

“This wallpaper was here when we moved in,” Louella murmured, looking around the hall. “I always meant to change it.”

“Did you?” Maggie led her gently toward the living room as she spoke. “Perhaps you could give me some suggestions. I haven’t quite made up my mind yet.”

“Something warm,” Louella said softly. “Something warm, with subtle color, so people would feel welcome. That’s what I wanted.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s just what it needs.” She wanted to put her arm around the woman and tell her she understood. Perhaps it was kinder not to.

“A house like this should smell of lemon oil and flowers.”

“It will,” Maggie told her, wishing she could change the scent of dust and paint.

“I always felt it should be filled with children.” She gazed around the room with the kind of misty concentration that made Maggie think she was seeing it as it had been more than twenty years before. “Children give a house its personality, you know, more than its decorating. They leave their mark on it.”

“You have grandchildren, don’t you?” Maggie steered her toward the sofa.