“When I asked you about why you bought this and why you wore it, you told me, ‘It’s comfortable.’ I stared at you, waiting for you to laugh, to tell me the truth. But you didn’t. And that’s when I realized I was married not only to a shallow man who sought attention but also a liar. You will never know who you are because you do not know your true authentic self. You will never know true love because you only see the surface and don’t love yourself.

“I release you,” I say, “I am done.” I toss in the sweatshirt, and the fire happily consumes it.

Finally, I hold the Dragoon Lady’s letter near the fire. “You do not control my destiny or the destiny of my summer cottage,” I say. “I acknowledge the importance you see in your work and actions, and I hope you will acknowledge the importance you see in my work and actions. Like the Phoenix, this cottage will be regenerated and born again. Like the Phoenix, this cottage will obtain new life by rising from the ashes of its predecessor.

“I release you,” I say, tossing the letter into the fire. “I am done.”

The fire leaps higher.

For a moment, Trish and I sit in silence, the fire crackling, warming our bodies on this frigid night.

“Dang, girl,” Trish suddenly yells. “That was some powerful stuff!”

Trish stands, grabs my hands, and we begin to dance around the bonfire, howling at the moon.

We stop when we see a young pizza deliveryman standing on the patio, the box trembling in his hands, his face etched in fright and confusion.

“No one answered the door,” he says. The fire illuminates the peach-fuzz on his baby face, the too-big hat on his head, the bangs in his eyes.

He takes a big step back, a horrified look on his face, and Trish runs inside to grab her purse. As she signs the receipt, she says, “There’s a big tip in there for keeping your mouth shut. Can you do that?”

The young man nods his head furiously and then takes off running. We can hear his tires squeal on Lakeshore Drive.

“I’m starving,” Trish says. “And I need another glass of wine. Smudging and purging is exhausting.”

SEVENTEEN

“My head,” Trish groans, wandering into a bedroom I am painting.

I shoot her a sad look and shake my head, a trick I learned from my father when I’d oversleep.

“Thank you, Dr. Guilt,” Trish says. “I need some water, coffee, aspirin and a greasy breakfast. Stat.”