Chapter 17: Green Hour

The baby did not come that night.

By morning the contractions had stopped, and the cardiologist stood in Willa's doorway with a stack of printouts.

Simon told me the rest on the phone.

Every test was normal. The echo, the stress panel, the rhythm monitor she wore for twelve hours.

"He said her heart is stronger than mine," Simon told me. "He said it in front of her. She went white."

Willa went home on bed rest with orders to stay flat until the baby was due.

She was told to skip every outing.

She did not skip mine.

On the night of the show, I stood in the gallery on Pearl Street.

I wore a black dress, and the green was on my wrist.

I had hung the last canvas myself that afternoon, with Gavin holding the ladder.

Nine paintings ran along the white walls.

The Ferry Stairs. My mother's garden. A kitchen window at dusk, with green light all over it.

The wall card beside that last one was a plain white rectangle.

Green Hour. Oil on linen. Cassandra Rowe.

I read my own name six times.

"They spelled it right," Gavin said at my shoulder.

"I checked it myself."

"I know. I watched you."

He wore a charcoal suit and no tie.

He had not left my side since we got out of the taxi.

There were reporters at the door, a critic from the city paper, and a woman from a magazine.

The gallery owner moved through them with a tray of champagne.

Helen stood at the back in her good navy dress, holding a glass she hadn't touched.

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