Usually she was the artist. Today she was the model. She had on sweatpants—both she and Garrett wore medium, although his sweatpants fit her better than they did him, because she did not have his long legs—and a Chinese jacket, plum-colored, patterned with blue octagons, edged in silver thread, that seemed to float among the lavender flowers that were as big as the palm of a hand raised for the high-five. A frog
, Nancy thought; that was what the piece was called—the near-knot she fingered, the little fastener she never closed.
It was late Saturday afternoon, and, as usual, Nancy Niles...