Of course, Monica had planned on opening her house to visitors—colleagues from school primarily, and students, and any friends who cared to make the trip—but she wouldn’t have done so, she wouldn’t have felt psychologically prepared, for several weeks. It hurt her pride to be forced to see the skimpiness of her life through another’s eyes, to risk evoking pity, or displaced sympathy. Now Sheila Trask of all persons was striding into the house, into the kitchen, as if she had been there many times and knew her way around. A brash, pushy, disagreeable person, Monica thought, her cheeks burning more intensely than before, even as her voice rattled away like that of any good-natured friend or neighbor, assuring Sheila that she certainly was welcome, she was in fact her first visitor, and perhaps she could offer Monica advice, much-needed advice. . . . Monica had never rented a house in the country before; she had never rented a house at all. And this one was so special, so large. . . . Clearly it would present so many problems. . . .

To which Sheila Trask replied merely, as no one else in her situation would have done: “Yes. You’re right.”

She was still panting slightly and in the close quarters of the kitchen she smelled frankly of perspiration. And of the horse as well—Monica supposed it must be the horse—something gamey, rank, leathery—not altogether unpleasant but certainly distracting.

And—yes—Monica’s keen gaze dropped to her boots—she would certainly trail dirt about. And take no notice of what she did.

They settled on iced tea for both of them—fortunately Monica had made up a pitcher that morning. Sheila said she was dying of thirst. The sun was warmer than she’d expected. With no more self-consciousness than a child she tore off several paper towels from a roll lying on Monica’s kitchen table and wiped her wet face.

Monica showed her through the uncarpeted dining room, into the living room, speaking of the house and its problems, supplying the pretext for a conversation as Sheila, saying very little, looked about inquisitively. She was slightly taller than Monica and moved in an erratic fashion—now quickly, now in a languid slantwise step. Her mouth was wide, fleshy, mobile, but her smiles were rather more nervous tics than anything else, and often when it seemed she was about to reply to one of Monica’s remarks she said nothing at all. An odd person, Monica thought, but, oddly, charming: even rather attractive: the quick darting eyes in particular. And the strong cheekbones. The long straight nose.