He texted on Sunday.

Are you home?

Cleo was on her spare room floor surrounded by canvas and the new brushes she had bought and a color she had mixed three times trying to get it right. She had paint on her forearm and probably her face and Gerald was sitting in the doorway judging everything.

Yes, she typed back. Why?

Can I come over?

She looked at her canvas. Looked at her paint covered arm.

Give me twenty minutes.

She showered fast, changed into something that was casual but not trying too hard, and was back in the living room with damp hair and a glass of water when...