I didn't hear from Ethan for nine days.
I finished the garden grading plan, signed the order for the final stone shipment, and moved into my mother's guest room after the apartment upstairs began a renovation that rattled every window. My days filled with tasks. My nights still had the occasional dream in which I was standing at the Bellwether dinner while everyone called me by someone else's name.
At the end of the week, Celia sent me a draft of the new gallery text.
The text was factual until the final sentence.
"Through the garden, Claire Rowan's vision found a second life in the work of another Claire Rowan."
I read it twice. The phrase was polished and poisonous. It made me a second life, a continuation, a way to close a story that had belonged to someone else.
I called Celia.
