Return to Summerhouse (The Summerhouse 2)

Amy took a deep breath and glanced into the dark living room, as though she were checking to see if Zoë was there. “I had a miscarriage,” she said softly.

“A long time ago?”

“Four months.”

“But that’s not enough time to get over anything, much less a death,” Faith said.

“I agree completely!” Amy said. “But no one will listen to me. I was sent off to this place—” She waved her arm around the room. “I was sent here to be with strangers—no offense—and I don’t see why.”

“We have something in common,” Faith said as she finished her tea. “But we have to please other people so we must stay.”

“Exactly,” Amy said.

“I think we should make the best of it.”

“What about…her?” Amy asked, her voice lowered.

“Zoë?” Faith got up and went into the living room to the blue cabinet and opened it. When she turned on the light, she saw that it was packed full of art supplies: paint and canvas, Cray-Pas, chalks, huge pads of paper, watercolors, lots of brushes.

“Please tell me we don’t have to draw our secret selves,” Amy said from behind her.

“I hope not. Jeanne said to open this cabinet in front of Zoë and she’d stay busy for days.”

“Glory hallelujah!” Amy said under her breath, then smiled at Faith. “Shall you and I eat breakfast out?”

“I’d like that,” Faith said. “I’d like that very much.”

Three

“Did you two have a good time?” Zoë asked, and they heard the animosity in her voice. “Did you do a lot of bonding?” She was in the garden behind the house and on the metal table were two watercolors.

“These are good,” Amy said in wonder as she looked at them. “In fact, they’re very good.” She held up a watercolor of three little kids struggling to pull a canoe onto a rocky beach. “If I saw this in a store, I’d buy it.” She looked at Zoë with different eyes.

“The queen has spoken,” Zoë said, and made a little bow toward Amy.

“However, if I’d met the artist I’m sure I would have changed my mind.”

Zoë laughed. “Did you two have a nice day out? Buy lots of stuff?”

“Amy bought half the town,” Faith said as she sat down by the table and looked at Zoë’s paintings. “You must have spent a hundred years in school to do this kind of work.”

“Actually, I never went to art school,” Zoë said. “Would either of you like something alcoholic to drink? I could make a pitcher of margaritas.” When neither Amy nor Faith said anything, Zoë said, “L

et me guess, you two angels of middle-class America don’t drink.”

“Give me the tequila.” Amy shook her head at Zoë. “Do you ever say anything nice?”

“Not if I can help it,” Zoë said as she headed for the kitchen. When she looked in the refrigerator she was glad to see that it was packed with a dozen little carryout boxes. She’d been sure that they’d go to dinner by themselves and leave her out of it, but they hadn’t. She couldn’t help feeling betrayed. She and Faith had been at the house first and Amy had arrived later. If sides were going to be taken, shouldn’t it be Faith and Zoë against Amy?

As Zoë started squeezing limes, she could almost hear Jeanne asking why it had to always be someone against someone else. Why couldn’t they all be on the same team?

Minutes later Zoë had filled a pitcher, salted three glasses, and put it all on a tray. For a moment she paused in front of the window and watched as Faith and Amy looked at the paintings she’d done that day. It was gratifying to see them shake their heads in wonder. Faith had said that Zoë must have spent a lot of time in school learning how to paint. But no, Zoë had woken up one morning with metal staples in her head and no memory of the preceding years of her life. It was when she was handed a ballpoint pen and a pad of paper to write on because her throat was sore, that she’d drawn portraits of all the people around her. The people consisted of the medical staff. No relative and no friend came to see her.

She took the tray outside and set it on the table. Faith moved the watercolors into the house, out of danger of the damp, then returned to pour the drinks.

“It’s lovely here,” Amy said, looking at the roses hanging over the fence. “I can see why Jeanne sends traumatized patients here.”

When Zoë’s heavily made-up eyes narrowed on Amy, as though she meant to say something hateful, Faith spoke up. “‘Traumatized’ doesn’t mean insane.”