Chapter 4: Terms at the Round Window

Lucy's POV

Margaret's studio smelled of coffee, graphite and wet plaster, and I loved it from the moment I was carried up the stairs.

I was not carried. I walked, slowly, with her hand under my elbow and a muttered speech about stubborn women.

The spare room sat above the drafting floor, under a slanted ceiling with one round window.

There was a narrow bed, a quilt, a lamp and a drawing board on legs that Margaret set across my knees.

"You may draw," she said. "You may not stand."

"Is that a medical opinion?"

"It's an architect's. Standing is a load-bearing decision."

By Thursday I had a routine. Sleep, tea, Margaret's soup, the heartbeat monitor she'd rented, and a pencil.

I drew small things, doorknobs and window latches, because they asked nothing of me.

The baby kicked on the left side whenever Margaret played the radio.

"She likes the news," Margaret said. "God help her."

On the shelf above the bed, between old studio binders and a jar of brushes, sat a plaster model the size of a loaf of bread.

It was a reading room with a roof that curved up from the walls in one long arc.

I had built it eight years ago for my thesis, with Margaret standing behind me saying "Again."

I did not look at it much.

On Thursday afternoon I heard the front door of the studio open, and then a man's voice below.

I knew it by the second word.

"Mrs. Doyle? I'm Harrison Merrick. I'm sorry to come unannounced."

"You're not sorry," Margaret said. "You're here."

"I'm here to see my wife."

"She's resting."

"Please."

It was quiet for a long moment.

Then Margaret called up the stairs. "Lucy. You have a visitor. I can put him back in his car if you like."

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