Trompe l'Oeil by Nancy Reisman Page A

Rome, since Molly; perhaps each day then was an extension of the return from Rome, no barrier to stop the aftermath from seeping forward. It seemed plausible. And yet, despite his complaints to Nora, he could no longer picture himself in Wellesley at all.
    Was Rome sufficient explanation? Even now, after Sara and Delia? It had become difficult to remember the living Molly, reduced, at times, to a girl thrown across the hot street. That, and the confusion of Delia’s resemblance to her, the way the raising of one girl blurred into raising another. But even when he searched, he struggled to find Molly behind the name, Molly now so thickly wrapped in event and repercussion it seemed her center had dissolved: in this way, too, the girl ceased to exist.

    Whatever mood James was in when he arrived home rippled out, changing the air in the house room by room—lately, Nora thought, a daily upheaval. In anticipation of his arrival, the kids became anxious and sullen, the sounds of the house strained. When James began to spend occasional nights in the city, she expected more turmoil. The first time, yes: Delia teared up dramatically, Sara sulked, Katy retreated. But Theo’s petulance abated; he offered to read to the girls. Nora coaxed Katy out of her room with popcorn and a TV movie. No one woke in the night, and the next morning, Nora slept until six thirty. She discovered she did not object.
    Yet city nights did not alter his mood in Blue Rock. James took to arguing against the house, as if the place had failed him.Its inadequacies multiplied. The windowed living room—a play zone for the little girls, admittedly scattered with toys—was a pit, he’d say. Nora had painted their bedroom white and delphinium blue, hung long drapes over the window quilts. Yet it was unredeemable , James said, because of the drafts (he’d put off window replacement). He was fed up with storm damage; in the laundry room, they’d found mice. And from Boston—how could she disagree?—Blue Rock was much too far.
    A long drive, yes. The bedroom was drafty; each spring gnats floated in the morning coffee. Yet Nora had painted and furnished each room, hung the art on the walls. It was Nora who filled the fruit bowl on the table; every day, as the closets, shelves, and drawers emptied, it was Nora who pushed back, tidying, washing, returning hundreds of objects to their places. The house remained a haven.
    Hadn’t it also been a haven for James?

    â€œGo ahead.” The woman waved at the French doors. “Open them—you’ll love the garden patio. Not the season, of course, but look at all the brickwork.” It was as she said: the doors, the broad patio, the garden brickwork, and still the snow-filled yard beyond, and the old-growth trees. (You have to imagine grass , said the woman—Miranda, was it?—you have to imagine plantings .) The living room was double the square footage of Blue Rock’s; the kitchen also; the dining room accommodated a table for twelve, though Miranda called it “modest,” stressing the house’s versatility—perfect for entertaining and for kids.A finished basement with a rec room, home office, and extra guest room. “Brand-new listing—it’s a great find, Nora,” Miranda said. “It’s going to go fast.”
    Fresh tulips on the kitchen counter; roses on the mantel. It was not hard to imagine grass; it was not hard to imagine the children in the various bedrooms. She’d driven through Wellesley before, lovely, yes, in spring. Even now, the neighborhood seemed well accessorized with red-ribboned wreaths on doorways and garages. Perhaps Miranda’s enthusiasm meant Nora had successfully played her role, in the soft gray suit she’d worn once to a luncheon with James, gold drop earrings, lipstick. Only twice had she drifted off during their conversation; once in the kitchen and once in the previous house, a