Sophie lifted a statue off its pedestal, leaving only the stout wooden post where she’d been anchored. “Better let me take these. I’ll paint some fig leaves on them, file off the nipples.”

Marianne pictured the statues returning in manatee drag, but that would be better than the current situation. “Well, thank you. But I can pay you. I insist on paying.”

“It’ll be a challenge for me, artistically,” said Sophie. “Let’s see what I come up with before you make any commitments on the monetary front. Hey, could I hang a snake from a tree, something like that?”

“A snake?” Her mind went to the poem in her notebook.

“Like in the Garden of Eden? To go with Genesis?” Sophie laughed. “I could give this naughty gal an apple.”

“Oh,” Marianne said. She’d forgotten about the name, and the fact that there would soon be a sign out front, announcing it. “Right.”

“You better bone up on your Bible stories before March rolls around,” said Sophie. “I’ll bring my truck for the rest.”

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.

She knew that part, but had to read on for the specifics: the division of night and day, the creation of the firmament, the stars, the division of water and sky and dry land, the thoughtful addition of fish and fowl and cattle for man to dominate and eat. And then, the creation of the garden, where He set man like a doll and named some rivers and put him in charge (sort of). But dominion wasn’t enough for man: God saw that he was lonely, and it wasn’t right to be lonely, especially with all that gardening to do.

She knew the whole pissy, woman-blaming rest, and so she went back to day one. She read aloud, the words beautiful and strange in her mouth: And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

That was the best part of any project, when everything was new and formless and possible. The spark of an idea. The smell of fresh paint, oven cleaner. Carpets with vacuum lines. Microwaves with no food smells or spatters. A blank page.

She was lonely for Eric, felt it each night on her walks, or at dinner, or lying in bed with the orange safety lights burning through the curtains. She thought of his teasing, Skype-halted voice, the physicality of him—long-limbed, smooth-skinned, just the right amount of muscle.

It would have been nice to have him there beside her. A helpmeet. Naked and unashamed, both of them.