Emily looked around her curiously. The light that spilled in the windows was softer than she had ever expected it would be. It glimmered almost like water on the sanded floors. If she let her imagination take her home, it was like the reflection of the Blair Water on her page when she sat beside it to write. It had been a boon that all of the old, un-tempered glass was salvageable. Although it was a bit risky, she liked the way it diffused sunlight better. Teddy would love the light here. She shut off that train of thought abruptly. No. She would not start down that road now. She set her battered, leather messenger bag down on the kitchen table and stroked the wood lightly with her fingers. It had been an old work table from the factory, but she had it remade. It suited her Murray practicality to have everything that remained in the space turned into something useful or decorative, if it was at all possible. As such, the décor was slightly austere and commercial, mixed with teak and cherry wood. She had antiques here, but the warm, well-loved kind, not the pristine, perfect, and priceless kind. So, this was home now? There was a question in her mind when she thought about it in those terms. This morning and Willomere seemed ages, lifetimes away from the present. She did not want to remember that, but she did, just the same.

"Teddy, we need to talk," she said desperately, standing at the foot of the stairs as he headed across the foyer to leave. She had followed him from his office in frustration.

He turned and smiled absently, "Later, Love. I have to get to a meeting." He turned away and headed to the door.

Emily hurried ahead and blocked the doorway, "No, not later. Now!" She looked up at him. Something resembling the Murray look was on her face, and she knew it. She saw the annoyance flash across his countenance and it vexed her even more. "To hell with the meeting!"

Teddy blinked and shook his head, "Emily, come on. Be reasonable. I said we would talk about this later." He did not have time to deal with domesticity. If Emily wanted the guests to leave, she could tell them to go. He really did not understand why she wanted him to do this, all of a sudden. He really didn't understand why she was upset at all. It wasn't as if their perpetual house guests were even noticeable, the house was so large. Of course, the fact that they had arrived before Christmas and were still here in July was a bit odd, but it was just a fact of life in their position. He didn't even know who they were.

"Later? When is later, Teddy?" she shook her head in frustration. This was impossible! She had broached the subject with him so many times that she was getting tired of it herself. She was beginning to sound like a shrew, and even she knew that. Somehow, she couldn't help it. "You are never home, and when you are, you're drowning in a ledger. Wake up, for God's sake! Look at what we've become!" She spun away from him and gestured at the room with her hand, "This albatross is killing us! You haven't painted in eons, and everything we are is stagnant. Doesn't it mean anything to you anymore?"

Teddy sighed. Dimly, he knew she was right, but he had to ignore it. God knew he wanted to paint. But it just wasn't there; it hadn't been for far too long. He didn't want to admit that to her, he couldn't. Emily was still writing, more and better than ever. She had a screenplay for The Moral of the Rose in Hollywood now and her second play on Broadway. Whatever inspiration drove her had not lessened over the years. But for him, Pearl Harbor had been impactful in a different way. He couldn't tell her that. More than anything, it hurt him that he couldn't talk to her about it. Instead, he flashed back, "Albatross? This is everything you ever wanted! I'm doing all of this for you!"

"I never wanted this!" Emily's voice was low, but none-the-less angry. "Never! I never wanted to lose my husband to a bank account! I never thought you would do this. Not you!" She glared at him, "You're killing us, Teddy!"

"Christ! Be reasonable, Emily!" he fumed. Did she think he wanted it to be like this? Why couldn't she see that this was the last thing he wanted? In spite of how he felt, he still couldn't tell her.

Emily took a deep breath and shut her eyes. They rarely got angry with one another, and it was not productive – they both knew that. "We can't solve anything like this. Please Teddy, stay home today and let's… let's go for a walk or something… we have to sort this out. I can't… I can't live like this anymore!" The last sentence was a tortured whisper.

Teddy shut his eyes briefly, and tried to calm down himself. Regardless of how he might feel about it, and how important he knew it was, he couldn't deal with this now. "Tomorrow. We'll do it tomorrow." He couldn't look at her when she spoke that way. It reminded him too much of how she had sounded when he told her. He nodded to himself in resolution and walked out of the house. The large black car promised an escape from all of this. Here, he was floundering like a fish out of water. He could go to his office and be in control of his life again; numbers on a page were easier to understand than this.

A little piece of Emily died as she watched him leave the house and duck into the waiting car. That he could even contemplate there being something more important than their life together was like a knife through her heart; piercing and fatal. "There are no more tomorrows," she whispered.

The abandoned factory had been on the auction block and she'd bought it for a song about two years ago. It was on the southern edge of the developed area, closer to the area known as Hell's Hundred Acres. She wasn't exactly sure why she wanted it so much. She had been over in Greenwich Village with Judith Kent having lunch at one of the new bookshop-cum-coffee houses. Judith had lived here since the early 1900s, in a lovely brownstone. Although Teddy's aunt was nothing like her sister Katharine, Emily adored her. She was an editor for Foster's – a competitor to Emily's Wareham's. Judith and Janet Royal had been friends for years, so the connection was easy. When they first moved to New York, in 1926, Judith had been an invaluable source of information. Even though she was retired now, she was still energetic and delightful to be with. Emily enjoyed visiting her in the Village whenever she could, even if Teddy rarely took the time to go with her anymore.

The area was quickly becoming a mecca for young artists and creative free spirits. It was bohemian and colorful. It reminded Emily so much of Paris in the early part of the century. The building itself was lovely – red brick and old timbers, walls and ceiling riddled with glass. Judith mentioned that so many of the old factories and warehouses were being turned into quaint little shops with apartments above them. For some reason the idea appealed to Emily. Teddy had always said that real estate was never a bad investment. She hated everything associated with his business, but had to admit that he was right about that. So she bought it. She hadn't even mentioned it to Teddy. He had always been adamant that she be in charge of her own money and have her independence, so there was no need to tell him. It was easy to renovate and rent out the shop spaces on the bottom floor. The top floor was something else. Emily hired an architect to come and plan out the apartment space, but something he said about using it as a studio had really resonated with her. In her mind, Emily envisioned this as a place where she and her husband could come to get away from everything – a sanctuary for their work in this metropolis of activity. So she did it. Instead of the apartments she originally planned, the space was turned into one enormous loft dwelling. It was really supposed to be a gift for Teddy, a small token that might give him back his art.

When the telegram came about Frank, something died in Teddy. Emily knew that. Something died in her too. But for her husband it had been his painting. He did a few sketches immediately after, but they were strained and mechanical. Then, even that stopped. He hadn't drawn anything in almost nine years. When the war took his son, it took every bit of creative spark from him. The doctors said it was depression and gave him medication to take. He tried it, but similar to the morphine-based pain killers he had been prescribed for his injury after the war, lithium did not sit well with Teddy. He stopped taking it and stopped seeing the doctors who advised him to.

He had, instead, immersed himself in his business ventures: travelling, meeting with investors, negotiating with the government. They had been more than wealthy when they first came to New York. Nearly twenty-five years later it was ridiculous! The house was a monstrosity - she had never loved it, as magnificent as it was. It was Teddy's dream for her, not the way she wanted to live. She accepted it in the spirit he intended it, but never felt like it was their home. It was like living at a hotel permanently. (Emily never understood how her friend Coco could stand that.) It was forced formality and social obligation, twenty-four hours a day. When things had been good between her and Teddy, it was manageable, tolerable, and some parts of it were even fun. They could laugh together at the currying of favor and pretentious posing and then retreat to their studios and go back to being themselves. It hadn't bothered her so much then. Now it was different.

Her decision to leave this morning had made it more than different. She had tried to stay. She had tried to make it work with him, but it wasn't in her to live with a man she could not really talk to. She had not been able to talk to Teddy, not really, for years now. Every time she tried, something always got in the way. Even in their private life, he was distant and unreachable. His arm around her was habit, not affection. His kisses were cool and never contained the promise of passion they once had. She tried to pretend that was not important; they weren't newlyweds, after all. She had stayed - first for the children and then for the grandchildren. But, it wouldn't work. This morning, something snapped inside her – the straw that broke the camel's back, if you will. When she told him what she needed, he ignored it. Emily could handle a lot of things, but not that. She could not be married to a man who thought so little of her. It was almost a relief to leave. But now she had to face the reality of being a single woman again. It had been almost forty years since she had even considered that. She had never thought that Teddy would change like this. Never. She had never thought about being alone since the day he came back to her.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the unfamiliar smell of her new home. "Well E.B., best get at it!" She spoke out loud to herself and moved toward the large writing table that was set up to look out over the river. Work – her saving solace. She thought about what she needed to do: edits for Goldwyn. She pulled out the file and sat down to write.