Frances was waiting beside her own car, not because she needed a ride but because Lena had followed her to it.
“I can call when I get home,” she was saying. “You don't have to watch me drive there.”
“I'd like to know you're in.”
“Then answer the telephone.”
The donor and his wife were getting into a car farther down the drive. He held the door while she settled her wrap; she looked back toward the house once, then went inside. The driver waited until the man was clear of the door before closing it. An evening could end with a series of practical courtesies no matter what had happened at the table.
Vivian stopped a few steps from Frances. The woman saw her, opened her own car door, then shut it again without getting in.
“I have the check,” she said.
Vivian's gaze dropped to the car door.
“I'll present it.”
“Yes.”
“I don't want you thinking refusing it would make me finer.”
“I don't.”
Frances looked at her long enough to see whether she'd say something else. Vivian said nothing.
“I want the original,” Frances said.
“I've sent everything I have. My lawyer has it too. I'll answer whoever you want me to answer.”
“You can start by not choosing for me.”
Vivian nodded.
“And don't go to the curator. I'll tell her what I want her to hear.”
“I won't.”
The older woman opened the door again. This time she put her bag in the passenger seat and her jacket neatly over it. Under the jacket she wore a plain dark dress, the stone at her throat catching the drive lights. Vivian thought of the young woman in the old catalog, the photograph she'd admired before being told how uncomfortable the shoes were. Frances still knew exactly what she wanted people to see.
She turned back to her daughter. “You can come tomorrow if you like.”
Lena looked up. “I will.”
“Not first thing. I have calls.”
“I'll ask.”
Frances accepted that, neither warmly nor cruelly. She got in, fastened the seat belt, waited for Lena to step back. Vivian watched the car move out, the indicator blink, the woman choose the turn herself. She was gone before anybody could mistake staying to watch for helping.
Lena stood in the patch of light left empty by the car. The green dress looked almost black now. Without the dinner's attention, she seemed tired, older than she had in the receiving room, not less beautiful. Vivian wanted to go toward her. She didn't.
“You knew what I meant,” Lena said.
“Yes.”
“I didn't ask you to make her lie. I wanted her out before they made her look like somebody to be handled.”
“You asked me to handle her.”
Lena flinched. “Don't turn it into a line.”
Vivian looked down.
“I wanted to do it,” she said.
Lena looked at her.
“I knew what you'd be giving me afterward. I wanted it. I could see the work, the company. I wasn't standing there above it.”
“Then why did you have to put my fee on the table?”
Vivian could not give an answer that would make the result less ugly for Lena. She had refused to help the woman make Frances leave; she had also exposed the price of a welcome the woman was finally enjoying. The second act could not claim the first as permission to be painless.
“I was the one who sold it to you,” she said. “I needed to say what I sold.”
“You made me look like somebody who couldn't get there any other way.”
“I'm sorry.”
Lena looked toward the house. Nicholas had come out to say good night to Tessa. He held her hand briefly and spoke to her with his head inclined, giving the departing guest the whole of his attention. Tessa answered, then looked once toward Vivian. She did not come over. Nicholas let her go to her car before turning back inside.
“I liked being there,” Lena said. “I don't want you to explain that to me either.”
“I won't.”
“And I like the painting.”
“You should.”
“I do. It's not a thing I need you to approve.”
Vivian held herself still.
“Find someone else for the rest,” she said. “The collection.”
Lena shook her head. “You don't get to dismiss yourself.”
“All right.”
“I'm telling you. I don't want to work with you after this.”
Vivian nodded. The sentence was plain, exactly what she'd expected to hear since the passage outside the dining room. Hearing it still hurt. She wanted one more meal, a morning in the pink house, the woman looking back from the sofa before saying something rude and accurate about the picture.
“The actual sale material will go to your office,” she said. “You have the receipt and the fee account. I'll answer any questions about the work.”
“To my office.”
“Yes.”
Lena turned toward her car, stopped, then turned back. Vivian waited for the thing that would make the leaving less abrupt.
“My mother really did like you,” she said.
She went before Vivian could answer.
The drive emptied. A man from the household came to collect the last glass left on the outside wall, picked up a napkin beneath it, and went in by the side entrance. In the hall Nicholas stood on the telephone. Through the open front door Vivian heard him say, “Of course I understand. We'll speak in the morning.” He was already listening to the first versions people had made from the dinner, choosing the parts he could answer.
Celeste was inside, just beyond him. Vivian saw the dark red of her shirt, the light on her bare arm. The woman looked toward the door. For a moment they could see each other clearly, no one between them, no urgent favor available to delay the ending.
Celeste did not come out. Vivian did not go in.
She walked down to her car. The wrap she hadn't needed lay across the passenger seat. She put her bag beside it, sat, shut the door. Through the windshield the house looked as it had on other nights when she'd left too late, warmly lit, somebody still awake upstairs.
At the gate she stopped to let another vehicle pass, a delivery van taking away equipment from the weekend. The driver raised a hand. She returned it, waited until the opening was clear, and went home.