Chapter 11: The Tap

By Saturday, the Somerville apartment had a client list, a name on a napkin, and one working electrical outlet.

Ingrid worked at one end of the kitchen table with her sleeves rolled up, and I worked at the other.

The kitchen was the only room with decent light.

The faucet dripped into the sink the whole time, a slow orange drip onto rust.

"I'm going to have to hit that tap with a hammer," Ingrid said, without looking up.

"Don't."

"I'm counting the drips. It's a bad omen."

"You counted four hundred between ten and noon."

"Because I'm thorough," she said.

She turned her laptop toward me.

"The dentists in Newton want a waiting room that doesn't look like a waiting room. Three samples by Monday."

"Three is a lot."

"Three is what we have," she said. "Eleven clients called, and we have a table and one lamp."

"We have a table, one lamp and an outlet."

"The outlet is why we are not dead."

The knock came just after two.

It was quiet and polite, two taps and a pause.

Ingrid raised her eyebrows.

"I'm not expecting anyone," I said.

I opened the door.

Adeline stood in the hallway in jeans and a gray sweater, with her hair tied back, holding a small plastic bag from a hardware store.

She looked tired.

There were faint shadows under her eyes, and her face looked cleaner without the lipstick.

"I'm not going to stay," she said. "May I come in for ten minutes?"

Ingrid stood up from the table.

"I'll get coffee," she said, and she took her keys and left.

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