It was obvious, however, that she was steering clear of difficult subjects. She didn’t mention again her plan to leave Carlton. And she didn’t ask Wren about the exhibition or how the sculptures had been received. And she certainly didn’t say a word about their childhood. Her attempt to restore her and her sister’s relationship while avoiding certain topics struck Maggie as comparable to someone using tape to fix a shattered platter—one missing big pieces. It wasn’t going to work.

Maggie watched her mother with concern. Artificially chipper, jumpy with nerves, Mom seemed as fragile as the snow Maggie had tested on the rocks Friday morning. How easily the white chunk had answered the merest pressure of her foot and broken free.

Maggie’s mother, with her brittle smile, seemed just as likely to fall apart.

On Sunday morning, Mom stood at the sink window, fidgeted with her purse strap, and patted her hair, which was coiled into as neat a bun as an abundance of frizzy curls allowed. “I hope Wren’s not long.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to finish reading a novel for tomorrow’s meeting.”

“You’re leading the book club discussion?” Maggie crouched by Mom’s feet, batted her aside, and reached into the cupboard.

“I’m supposed to.”

She grabbed the bottle of Mr. Clean and a bucket. First the kitchen, then the bathroom, then everywhere else. She wanted to finish before Linnie picked her up. They had their dinner date with Linnie’s sister tonight.

Her mother checked her watch again. “What in the world is your aunt doing in that studio? I wish she’d hurry.” She folded her arms and scowled out the window.

“Adam’s got Wren on the phone,” Maggie explained. “Whenever that happens, it can take a while.” At Mom’s baffled look, she explained, “I don’t really know who he is—an agent, maybe?—just that he handles her projects, conferences…” She waved a hand. “Stuff.”

“Oh.” Mom turned quickly and went back to frowning out the window.

Maggie sighed and settled the bucket in the sink. Her mother didn’t want to hear about the art stuff. In fact, at least in Maggie’s hearing, the only questions she’d asked Wren that related to her work had to do with a mug on the counter and the curly-handled vase on the bookshelf behind the couch. It was as if Mom had mentally recast her sister, from a ceramist to simply a potter. Pots were safe. Sculptures—not so much. As for the studio, Maggie suspected her mother would never step foot in that space again. Too afraid of what she might find.

She poured some cleaning liquid into the bucket, turned on the spigot, and watched bubbles form under the water’s rush. “What novel are you doing this week?”

“Carry On.”