Page 46 of The Impossible Princess
“Those are for our dotty patients,” Morag says. “The staff prints up pictures of their actual doors—house numbers and potted plants—which makes them feel like they’re going home at the end of the day.”
“Dotty. You mean dementia patients?”
She shrugs. “If you know you might end up there, you get a little less precious about it.”
I want to tell Max about this. This is one of the good senior care centers, and looking around the table, I wonder how many of my new acquaintances will end up in the dementia wing.
Before I leave, I meet with the administrative staff and thank them for their welcome. I ask them about the doors and drive away, deep in thought.
My phone vibrates, and since I don’t wait until I’m at the gates of the Summer Palace to wear expressions, I dive into my purse, swiping the screen.
My heart speeds up when I realize it’s a picture from Max. After it loads, I laugh, causing the driver to tilt his head towards the rear-view mirror. Max has sent me a photograph of a ladder stacked next to large buckets and painting supplies.
Three text dots bounce.
Hey, friend. I’m ready to paint my cottage.
I tap my reply.
I don’t know how to paint.
I am not joking about this. My painting history includes painting a single room in college—door, walls, and ceiling, all black—when a sorority sister was going through a breakup.
Allow me to introduce you to a valuable apprenticeship opportunity. What day? I’m off on Tuesday and Wednesday.
I’m smiling. He promised me the kiss wouldn’t ruin our friendship, and he doesn’t break promises, no matter how awkward it will be to see each other again. I pull up my calendar and look for a free day.
Tuesday? I have an evening event,but my morning is free.
Done.
We’re super friendly.
22
Act of War
MAX
Tuesday is hot. I’m outside after breakfast, mixing the paint, when I hear her car drive up. It’s impressive that I don’t rush to the front door, instead keeping my hands involved in the task, but I’ve had a few days to talk myself down from the nerve-destroying heights of movie night. I’ve resolved to be calm.
“Out back,” I call, swirling the stirrer through the thick liquid. I am not at all calm.
The door creaks open, and I hear, “Max.” My breath gusts from my lungs. It’s not her at all. I wipe the wooden stick across the lid of the paint can and set it aside, turning to greet my mother.
“I brought you some cherries, peas, and raspberries. Left them in the kitchen. They’re good this year,” she kisses the tips of her fingers. “Composted manure came through for me.”
Mom glances over the wall I’ve prepared. It means something when she gives me a nod of approval. If nothing else, decorating parade floats year after year has made her an expert at large projects and small details.
“Nice that you’re finally getting this old place painted,” she says, padding over in her flat cork sandals, each of her toes painted a different color. That’s the work of a four-year-old. My mother will do anything for her only grandchild.
“I like your nails, Mom.” I kiss her cheek and she pops her knee.
“Ava set up a salon in the garden plot last weekend, and I let her do them any way she liked. It made a dreadful mess.”
“Nice of you to humor her,” I say, giving Mom a hug and steering her through the house. “I can’t chat today. Lots to do. Are you on your way to Susi’s house?” My sister lives a half-hour up the motorway. Though mom often pops by, this unexpected visit is particularly ill-timed. Clara is ruthlessly punctual, and the clock is quivering near the top of the hour.
“She wanted me to teach her how to hem some curtains.”
