She presented her ideas notebook to Nick that night when they were watching TV. “Maybe I could be your interior designer,” she said. Her voice was teasing, but she meant it. “Cox and Cox we could call ourselves.” He’d patted her thigh. “Let me deal with this, hon. You’ve got enough on your mind.”

The notebook had sagged in her hand. He didn’t mean to be unkind. He was just used to being the provider, that was all. She knew she ought to be grateful, having someone who wanted to take care of her and the kids. And she was. But she still thumbed through that notebook sometimes, daydreaming.

Kaye sank down in the water until just her eyes and nose were peeping out. Sometimes she felt worthless. Less than worthless. Her kids didn’t need her anymore. Her husband didn’t take her seriously. Her neighbors hated her. But who could she even talk to about it? She and her friends from Beaufort hardly even texted anymore. There wasn’t much to say. Who cared if the auction theme at Lindy’s old school was “Caribbean cruise” if you couldn’t help blend the piña coladas? And what did it matter if the girl who’d bought your house “fit right in,” down to organizing the annual block party? Were you supposed to congratulate her for stealing your old life?

She’d lost contact with all but one of the friends from the sea island where she’d grown up—Lynnette, a girl who’d gone away for years, then went back to write poetry. She sent Kaye a link to one of her poems from a literary magazine a year or so ago, a depressing thing about cancer that didn’t even rhyme. If Kaye ever were to tell anyone about her mammography paintings, it would be Lynnette. But the truth was, it was too embarrassing to tell a soul. She felt the heat rise to her face at the thought of all those painted breasts. She ought to get rid of them before someone realized what a nutcase she was.