Her phone buzzed. She scanned the notifications. A missed call from her mother, and a text from her stepsister, Anna Maria. Both could wait, as could the emails mustering their forces in her inbox. At least one would be from a shelter director, reminding her that she had a job waiting whenever she was ready to return. Whenever. Not if. So far only her therapist had acknowledged the possibility that she might not be ready to return to any of it: Boston, her job, even the veterinary field. Remembering what her therapist, Shanti, had taught her about thought blocking, she redirected her mind away from her breakdown and the responsibilities she’d put on hold, and back to the present.

Tomorrow she would stop by the hardware store and pick up some paint palettes. While she was there, maybe she’d see about grabbing a fiberglass repair kit to fix the leak in her skiff. One day at a time as Ray Russo was fond of saying—not that he’d ever managed to stick with AA. No major decisions. She could do this.

Chapter Three

The hardware store in town boasted a slim selection of paint chips. Emilia eyed the palette, wondering if she should venture farther inland in search of a larger chain home improvement store. The thought exhausted her.

Maybe it’s good to have fewer options. She selected a handful of white, cream, and ivory chips and tried to visualize them on the rough pine walls. Should she leave the walls and just paint the trim? And what about the ceiling? No. Light walls. She’d play with leaving a few exposed beams, but the house needed a face-lift, and she couldn’t bear to think about her father sitting alone in the dark, smoking his pipe and drinking until his heart gave out. Fresh paint, fresh start.

“Need any help?”

The store clerk looked to be about sixteen. Hardly old enough to be an expert in anything, despite the Ask Me pin above his nametag.

“Fiberglass repair?” she said.

“Aisle six,” replied Ask Me Doug. He led the way, his work shirt rumpled and his hair that peculiar brand of disarray known only to teenage boys. “Boat?”

“Yes. Just a skiff.”

“Ever repaired one before?”

“I helped my dad once.”

“It’s super easy.” He grinned, apparently enthusiastic about the subject, as he launched into an explanation about the proper curing conditions for fiberglass that made her eyes glaze. Emilia amended her earlier assessment. Perhaps Doug was an expert in repairing leaky rowboats.

“Thanks,” she said when he finished.

“No problem. There’s lots of YouTube videos if you need more help.”

She would definitely need more help.

Laden with paint chips and a fiberglass kit, she left the store and stepped into the spring sunshine. Nell waited in the car with her long neck stretched out the window, tracking the progress of a squirrel in a neighboring tree.

“Oh no you don’t.” Nell had two gears: potato and full speed. Emilia would never catch her if she took off after the fluffy-tailed creature. She grabbed her dog’s leash forcefully as she dumped her supplies in the trunk. Nell gazed after the squirrel with longing, but did not attempt to give chase.