Chapter 7: Terms

The bell rang, and Celia came in with both arms open.

"Willa!" she cried. "Oh, thank God. We've been out of our minds."

She crossed the shop in a pale coat and pearl earrings, and every head in the line turned.

She stopped an arm's length from me with her eyes full.

"Mother has barely slept," she said. "Stuart hasn't eaten. Come home, sweetheart, nobody is angry with you."

The woman with the rye loaf frowned at her.

I put both hands on the counter.

"You pushed me down the stairs," I said.

I said it loudly enough that the fishermen's wives at the back could hear.

Celia's smile did not move.

"You're confused," she said, very kindly. "The doctors said it might happen. The fall, the stress, the hormones."

"The foyer camera saw it."

For one breath, nothing crossed her face at all.

Then she turned to Stuart, and her lip began to shake.

"Stuart, tell her. Tell her I would never."

Stuart did not look at her.

"Wait in the car, Celia," he said.

"Stuart..."

"Wait in the car."

She stared at him, and I saw her measure the line, the baker and the open door.

She went out with her chin up.

Through the glass, I watched her climb back into the black car and close the door.

The baker leaned toward me.

"Ten minutes," she said. "Then I need you at the oven."

"Ten minutes," I said.

I took my coat off the hook and walked out the back, down the alley and onto the hill that led to the lake.

Stuart came after me.

The pier ran forty yards into the water, grey boards and a rope rail.

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