Seven

She couldn't bear the thought that she might be indulging merely a mediocre talent, though. Joni would not let her make a fool of herself without a word of caution.

Joni must love the paintings, she thought, unplugging the cord to move the vacuum sweeper to the dining room. Anything less would be suspect. If Joni didn't like them, she would be gentle: as blunt as Joni could be, she knew when a softer touch was called for. Andrea would look for some reservation, some hesitation.

By the time she finished the vacuuming and dusting that afternoon, Andrea was ready to interpret guarded encouragement as an sign her work was too subjective or amateurish. She brewed a pot of coffee and nervously waited.

The children arrived before Joni. They ran to the door with their book bags flopping, anxious to get out of the wind. When Andrea opened the door, she smelled the smoke from a neighbor's fireplace, a reminder that the ashes from the last fire Jack built were still in the fireplace over a year later.

Andrea helped the children with their coats and gloves and tried to listen while Robin begged to take Tae Kwon Do lessons.

"Please, Mommy. It starts this Saturday," her daughter pleaded, "CeCi gets to."

"We'll see, Angel," Andrea said, "I can't think about it now."

She poured two glasses of milk and took a box of graham crackers from the pantry. The children had settled down at the kitchen table when the door bell rang.