Rose Madder

“They aren’t the words I would have chosen myself-I don’t know what words would be, exactly-but they’ll do. The point is, if you leave the Whitestone, I can’t absolutely guarantee I could get you back in, especially on short notice. There are always new girls here at D and S, as you know very well, and they have to be my first priority.”

“Of course. I understand that.”

“I’d do what I could, naturally, but-”

“If the job Mr Lefferts offered me doesn’t pan out, I’ll look for work waitressing,” Rosie said quietly.

“My back is much better now, and I think I could do it. Thanks to Dawn, I can probably get a late-shift job in a Seven-Eleven or a Piggly-Wiggly, if it comes to that.” Dawn was Dawn Verecker, who gave rudimentary clerking lessons on a cash register that was kept in one of the back rooms. Rosie had been an attentive student. A

“But you don’t think it will come to that, do you?”

“No.” She directed another glance down at her picture.

“I think it will work out. In the meantime, I owe you so much…”

“You know what to do about that, don’t you?”

“Pass it on.” A

“That’s right. If you should see a version of yourself walking down the street someday-a woman who looks lost and afraid of her own shadow-just pass it on.”

“Can I ask you something, A

“Anything at all.”

“You said your parents founded Daughters and Sisters. Why? And why do you carry it on? Or pass it on, if you like that better?” A

“Rose?” It was A

“Rose, are you all right?” She looked up from the book (Misery’s Lover, the title proclaimed in that same red foil, and, below it, Paul Sheldon’s Most Torrid Novel!) and forced a smile.

“Yes, I’m fine. This looks hot.”

“Bodice-rippers are one of my secret vices,” A

“Better than chocolate because they don’t make you fat and the men in them are better than real men because they don’t call you at four in the morning, drunk and whining for a second chance. But they’re trash, and do you know why?”

Rosie shook her head.

“Because the whole round world is explained in them. There are reasons for everything. They may be as farfetched as the stories in the supermarket tabloids and they may run counter to everything a halfway intelligent person understands about how people behave in real life, but they’re there, by God. In a book like Misery’s Lover, A

“I hate the idea that everything we do gets done because of the things people have done to us,” A

“It takes everything out of our hands, it doesn’t account in the least for the occasional saints and devils we glimpse among us, and most important of all, it doesn’t ring true to my heart. It’s good in books like Paul Sheldon’s, though. It’s comforting. Lets you believe, at least for a little while, that God is sane and nothing bad will happen to the people that you like in the story. May I have my book back? I’m going to finish it tonight. With lots of hot tea. Gallons.” Rosie smiled, and A

“You’ll come for the picnic, won’t you, Rosie? It’s going to be at Ettinger’s Pier. We’ll need all the help we can get. We always do.”

“Oh, you bet,” Rosie said.

“Unless Mr Lefferts decides I’m a prodigy and wants me to work on Saturdays, that is.”

“I doubt that.” A

“When can I move in, A

“Tomorrow, if you want.” A

“You said it was odd,” Rosie said.

“Why?” A

“Because the woman is at the center, and yet her back is turned. That seems an extremely peculiar approach to this sort of painting, which has been otherwise quite conventionally executed.” Now she glanced over at Rosie, and when she went on, her tone was a bit apologetic.

“The building at the bottom of the hill is out of perspective, by the way.”

“Yes. The man who sold me the picture mentioned that. Mr LefFerts said it was probably done on purpose. Or some of the elements would be lost.”

“I suppose that’s true.” She looked at it for several moments longer.

“It does have something, doesn’t it? A fraught quality.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” A

“Neither do I… except that there’s something about it that makes me think of my romance novels. Strong men, lusty women, gushing hormones. Fraught’s the only word I can think of that comes close to describing what I mean. A calm-before-the-storm thing. Probably it’s just the sky.” She turned the frame around again and restudied the words charcoaled on the backing.

“Is this what caught your eye to start with? Your own name?”

“Nope,” Rosie said, “by the time I saw Rose Madder on the back, I already knew I wanted the painting.” She smiled.

“It was just a coincidence, I guess-the kind that isn’t allowed in the romance novels you like.”

“I see.” But A

“Yes,” Rose said. Suddenly, for no reason at all, she felt very uneasy. It was as if, somewhere off in that other timezone where evening had already begun, a man was thinking of her.