“Maybe I should jot it down,” Lilian said, though she made no effort to do so. “I’m writing a collection of poems about the experience. It’s called ‘Mail-Order Bride,’ though I suppose that term is outdated. But ‘Internet-Order Bride’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“‘Online Bride,’” Maggie suggested.

“That’s good,” Lilian said, though again she did not write it down. “I wake up and write a new poem each day. I switch off. Half are about the Chinese woman,” she said. “And half are about the Russian.”

“Catharsis,” Maggie said. “From the same root as catheter. I read that in a story somewhere.”

“What suits you at one point in life may be unacceptable later,” Lilian advised. “Jerome was quite kinky, early on.”

“How did you wind up … here?” Janine asked tentatively.

“You mean at a Christian writing program?” Lilian said. “I’m Episcopalian. We believe in the suffering of Christ, but also in the cunning of lawyers, and my lawyer advised channeling my rage somewhere more wholesome than Facebook. I can drive here during the day, and keep an eye on our condo at night. So here I am.” She shrugged. “How about you? Marriage woes?”

It took Janine a moment to realize that Lilian was talking to her. She blushed. “No, I mean, my husband did not exactly understand why I needed to come here to study something I was already doing on my own. He thinks poetry is like hooking rugs, or needlecraft, something you just pick up. He built me a room for it, at our house. Like a sewing room.”

Lilian got up from the table, evidently bored with the relatively small gaps of understanding that characterized Janine’s marriage. “I must take a nap.”

“Do you want to borrow my room?” Maggie asked. “I only slept in one bed.”

“Oh, I have a room,” Lilian said. “They told me I could have a discount because I’m staying at my own home, but I wanted the full experience.” She waved her hand to encompass the ranch: its crowded dining hall, with hardly enough room to walk between tables, its unmanicured view of the gulf. “Besides, I’m spending as much money as I can before the divorce is final. Just in case.”

“I wish it could be like hooking a rug,” Maggie said, after Lilian was gone. “Writing poetry, I mean. I’m not sure Lorraine will be the easiest teacher to learn from. Your husband sounds sweet, though.”

“He believes in my work,” Janine said, glad to have the chance to say something nice. “He believes in its message, about the sanctity and value of life.”

“Wait,” Maggie said. “Your poems are the ones about that woman who died? Terri Schiavo?”

Janine nodded.

“Those were very sad. Very sad.”

“Thank you,” Janine said.