The shelf fell out of the wardrobe while Delia was looking for a shoe.
It did not fall far. One end dropped, spilling a stack of winter clothes across her head and shoulders, while the other remained wedged in place. Soren, sitting on the edge of the bed, stared at her for one startled second before getting up to help.
“Are you hurt?”
She removed a scarf from her face. “Only in spirit.”
He took the pile from her arms. She crouched to retrieve the missing shoe, which was now beneath a sweater she had not worn in two years.
“I knew it was in here.”
“Excellent news.”
They had been about to go out. Instead Soren lifted the loose end of the shelf while Delia inspected the small support beneath it. One of the plastic pegs had snapped. She found half of it on the floor.
“I can get another,” she said.
“Probably a set. The others look tired.”
“I feel judged by my furniture.”
He smiled and set the shelf on the bed. The wardrobe looked alarmingly empty without it, though the floor of the room now held enough clothes to suggest she had been hiding a second household.
They took the broken peg to the hardware shop and found a packet of replacements, with enough spare ones for the other supports.
She bought them, along with a small hook for the print still propped above the bookcase. Outside, the street was warm and quieter than it had been the previous evening when Soren arrived. He had driven over after work commitments on Saturday, arriving after her second session at the museum and finding her still animated by it. They had talked in bed until she lost her place in a sentence and fell asleep against him.
Now he took her hand and asked about the woman who had brought the map the first time.
“Did she come back?”
“Yes. With her husband this time.”
“How was he?”
“Funny. Quiet until he decided we needed correcting.”
She told him a little more as they walked. The second session had been different, which she had hoped for and found slightly unnerving. Fewer borrowed objects, more things brought from home. The paired conversations had worked better with more space. One person had left early; another had stayed to ask whether a recording of her grandmother counted as an object. Delia had said they could work something out.
Devon had approved two further evenings within the small budget, subject to room availability. Delia had received that confirmation before the second session, which had made her both happier and more aware that she would have to keep doing the work after the excitement of beginning wore off.
“Two more,” Soren said.
“For now.”
“You sound pleased.”
“I am. I’m also going to need a better way to store all the notes.”
“A shelf?”
She stopped walking and looked at him. He grinned.
Back at the apartment, they fitted the new supports and tested the shelf. Delia put the winter clothes away while Soren hung the print. There was still no room for another coat.
At three, Soren washed his hands while Delia made tea. She set their mugs on the table beside the calendar, then remembered something she had intended to tell him before the shelf intervened.
“Yasmin’s asked me to help with something on the fourteenth of September. Friday evening. I said I would.”
Soren dried his hands. “All right.”
“I know we’d talked about me coming that weekend.”
“Could you come Saturday?”
“Maybe. But you have the private booking, don’t you?”
He checked his phone. “Yes. Saturday afternoon into the evening.”
They looked at the dates together. The following Thursday they were due to leave for their four-day trip, now confirmed with both their work arrangements. Delia had been counting on the weekend before as well, though she had never said how much she wanted it.
“That might be too much driving,” Soren said.
She knew he was right. She also felt a small, unreasonable resentment at the calendar for containing exactly as many hours as it always had.
“I could come Sunday morning.”
“And go back Sunday afternoon?”
“I know.”
He sat beside her instead of across the table. “We could leave that weekend.”
“We could.”
She rubbed a fingertip over the edge of the calendar page. He did not rush to make the lost weekend sound desirable. She was grateful for that. A few minutes of disappointment seemed less tiring than being persuaded to call it sensible.
“Then the eighth,” she said. “I’ll come on the eighth, as planned. And after that we have the trip.”
“Yes.”
They marked it. October held another awkward stretch, with museum work on one side and a cinema commitment on the other. This time Soren suggested coming to Bellweather on a Sunday and staying through Monday, when Delia could arrange a later start. She checked the relevant week and said it might work, then wrote a question mark rather than a promise.
“I’ll ask Devon.”
“And I’ll confirm the cover.”
They put the calendar away before it could consume the afternoon.
Yasmin called while Delia was carrying the empty mugs to the sink. She put the phone on speaker because her hands were wet, then regretted it when her friend began with, “Tell me you’ve remembered the thing.”
“I have remembered the thing.”
“Which thing?” Soren asked from the table.
“Don’t confuse her,” Yasmin said. “She’s my reliable person.”
Delia laughed. “That’s a terrible burden to put on someone.”
“Fine. My mostly reliable person. September fourteenth. I need you for two hours, not the whole night.”
“I’ve got it.”
“And you don’t need to organize it. Just be there.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It should. I’ll send details.”
They talked for another minute, then Yasmin had to go. Delia dried her hands. Soren watched her put the phone down.
“What is it?” he asked.
“A small display she’s doing with some of the other teachers. Outside school. Her own work this time.”
“Good.”
“She’s nervous.”
“You should be there.”
“I will.”
He stood and came to her. She put her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest. He held her firmly enough that she could feel his breath move beneath her ear.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” she said.
“Me too.”
There was no better answer. She let herself have the one there was.
When he went to collect his bag, she followed him into the bedroom. He had left a shirt in the drawer, then added another. She watched him close it. The little domestic fact made the room feel less emptied by his departure.
“Next time you’re here,” she said, “we should do the coat hooks by the door.”
He looked up. “Should we?”
“I keep putting yours over the chair. It ends up on the floor.”
“I could hang it in the wardrobe.”
“There’s no room. I’ve just established that.”
“Despite the excellent new shelf.”
“Despite it.”
He smiled. “All right. Hooks.”
She hesitated. “And I’ll get another key cut.”
His expression changed, softly enough that she might have missed it if she had not been watching.
“For me?”
“Unless the jacket wants one.”
“I’d like that.”
“When you’re here on the twenty-fifth.”
He set down the bag and kissed her. She gripped his shoulders, unwilling to waste any of it. The kiss deepened until he made a quiet protesting sound and rested his forehead against hers.
“If we keep doing that, I’ll miss the daylight.”
“I know.”
She kissed him once more, quickly, then handed him the bag herself.
At the door, he touched the new print on its straightened hook as he passed. Delia walked him down to the car. The street smelled of warm pavement and somebody’s late lunch. He put the bag in the back, then turned to her before opening the driver’s door.
“Call you when I’m home.”
“Please.”
She stood back as he pulled away, lifting a hand when he did. Then she went upstairs, took the packet of spare shelf supports from the table, and put it in the kitchen drawer where she would be able to find it.
Beside it, she made room for the key she still needed to have cut.