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Jonathan and I jump up from the couch, and I’m sure we look guilty.

“Hey,” I say cheerfully—and, in truth, I’m glad he interrupted our conversation, although I’m pissed that he hadn’t contacted me before coming over, as he’d promised he would.

“Good. I’ve wanted you two to meet.” I introduce them and they shake hands, but both are wary.

Wyatt kisses me on the lips proprietarily. “I thought you were stuck home working all day.”

“I am. Jonathan just came by for a quick visit with Party .”

Wyatt eyes our discarded lunch and the two indentations in the couch where we were sitting next to each other. “A visit with Party ?”

“It’s one of my favorite paintings,” Jonathan explains. “Tamara is kind enough to let me come by once in a while to see it.”

Wyatt throws an arm around my shoulders, lets it casually hang there. “I’m not much of an art connoisseur, but, yeah, I really like it too.”

There’s a strained silence, and then Jonathan says, “I’ve got to get going.” He nods to me. “Thanks. Very much appreciated.” He starts to pick up the plates.

“Leave them,” Wyatt orders. “We’ll get it.”

“Sure. Thanks.” Jonathan takes his coat from the back of a chair and puts it on. “Nice to meet you, man,” he says, and quickly makes his exit.

“What kind of a guy visits a painting?” Wyatt asks.

“One who’s into art.”

“Or one who’s into you.” His mouth is a straight line. “Did you tell him you have a boyfriend?”

“It didn’t come up.” Given Wyatt’s mood, I don’t want to get into an argument about the key thing, so instead I pick up the lunch dishes. “I have to get back to work.”

“You could take time for your buddy Jonathan, but not for me?”

“This isn’t a competition, Wyatt. He’s a friend. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Ha.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, if you’re so goddamned busy, I guess I’ll go.”

I don’t stop him.

I put the dishes in the dishwasher, make myself a cup of coffee, and try to brush off Wyatt’s possessiveness.

Mug in hand, I head for my study. I pause to look at Party , as I always do.

I’ve had her for just a little over five months—even less if you count the short sojourn in Philadelphia—yet my attachment is as deep as if she’s been with me forever.

Which, considering the family connection, I could argue she has been.

But I recognize that she can’t stay here, and I do want her to be seen and admired.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,” I tell her.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Party grows murky, the sunny sky obliterated by dark clouds.

The calm river rises into towering waves that crash over the boat.

A hurricane, a tornado, rips the awning from its mounts, throws the partyers into the roiling sea.

As Berthe is lifted over the railing by the wind, she looks directly at me, and I catch the scent of violets.

“Get back what is mine,” I hear in my head.

The cup drops from my hand, spewing coffee all over the rug. I rush from the living room into my bedroom. Close the door behind me. Try to take deep breaths. No breath. My lungs ache. Can’t take in any air. Did I just see what I saw? Hear what I heard? I’m coming undone. Losing my sanity.

Go. Go. Get out of here. Wyatt’s? No, he’ll freak. I think of Jonathan. Ridiculous. Holly.

Always game for a sleepover, she says to come on over. I stuff a change of underwear into my purse, throw a bunch of towels on the rug to sop up the coffee. Keep my eyes averted. Flee the apartment.

When I arrive, Holly takes one look at me and asks if I had a fight with Wyatt.

I tell her I did, which is true, but obviously not what’s bothering me.

After dinner and a rom-com, I head to her guest room.

She watches me go with concern. I never told her I went to see Ruth—nor have I told anyone else—and I assume she’s wondering if whatever is troubling me is related to my request for the name of a therapist.

I curl into a fetal position on the unfamiliar bed and try to relax.

But all I can see is Berthe catapulting off the deck.

All I can hear is her begging me to get back what is hers.

I swallow the Ambien Holly gave me, and within fifteen minutes there are no sights and no sounds.

I sleep through the night, drugged and, thankfully, dreamless.

HOLLY HAS TO rush out in the morning, so after a hurried breakfast, I hug her goodbye and leave. She’d have let me stay if I’d asked, but, foolishly, I didn’t. So now I’m standing on the street, afraid to go home.

It’s drizzly and cold. I don’t have a coat, as I was too frantic yesterday to think to take one.

Again, I could go to Wyatt’s, but how do I explain why I’m soaking wet and have no jacket?

I stop in a Starbucks and order a second coffee.

I don’t have my laptop, and my phone has no charge, so I sit and watch rivulets of rain stream down the foggy windows. Then I order another cup.

When I finally drag myself to my building, the concierge shoots me a worried look but greets me as usual.

I go up the elevator, walk down the heavily carpeted hallway, and stop in front of my door.

I pull out the key and hold it in front of me, but I don’t move.

I’m terrified to enter my own apartment.

This is absurd. This is bullshit. I turn the key in the lock.

Everything is as I left it, including the wet towels on the rug.

I force myself to stand in front of Party , and, sweet relief, she’s back to her resting state.

I go into the bathroom to dry my hair. In the mirror, I see a woman who appears much older than the one I usually see there. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her shoulders are hunched. She looks dazed, miserable, defeated. All I can do is shake my head at her. The rug beckons.

I grab a brush and a bottle of cleaner, kneel in front of it.

The towels I put down yesterday seem to have absorbed most of the moisture, and given how long the coffee has had to embed into the weave, I suppose it could be much worse.

But even after sustained scrubbing, it’s clear a professional is going to be necessary. I bundle the wet towels and stand.

I avoid looking at Party , but I sense the painting has dimmed again and, as if pulled by a magnet, I twist toward her. This time, there isn’t any wind or waves. Just day turning into night, a full moon illuminating the partyers. Everyone is fixed in place, including Berthe.

But instead of appearing natural and lifelike as they usually do, each figure is caught in stop-action. Their bodies and faces remind me of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz . Frozen in time by some invisible hand. I’m frozen too, eyes fixed on the canvas.

Nothing happens. Nothing changes. I take a deep breath, look out the window at Tremont Street to ground myself, then slowly move my eyes back.

It’s the familiar cast of characters, holding their familiar poses, wearing their familiar clothes.

Except they’re fossilized, not quite human, muted tin images of themselves. And it’s the dead of night.

Dread snakes itself into every part of me. I’m in a horror movie, aware that at any minute these ossified people are going to transform into the evil vampires they actually are. Suck my blood until I’m one of them.

Then I understand, or think I do. “Do you want to stay here?” I ask her. “To stay with me?”

The moon in the painting goes from full to a crescent sliver.

As the shadows fall, the creatures begin to mumble and shift, morphing into unearthly shapes.

I drop to my knees, grab my glasses from the coffee table, hoping it’s my bad vision.

Or an ocular migraine. An LSD flashback.

“Then what?” I cry. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Berthe removes her hand from the railing and points to Manet’s signa-ture. I watch as the words “édouard Manet” dissolve and are then overwritten by “Berthe Morisot.”

I cower before her, clutching the damp towels to my stomach. Get back what is mine. “Are, are you trying to tell me you painted Party ? That I should prove it’s yours?”

Daylight returns to the painting, and Party is again as it always was. Nothing ominous, nothing hostile. I stagger to my feet. Fall into the couch. Try to catch my breath. And then I see that although the painting is in its resting state, Berthe’s signature still replaces Manet’s.

I raise my phone and take a picture. Once again, my screen shows Party on the Seine as I see her in front of me, except in the photograph the signature reads “édouard Manet.”