If I were to paint the scene, I’d use my palest blue for the sky, and slate gray for the clouds, edging them with tangerine and apricot, and a hint of gold. Every minute, the color changed, deepening, sliding from one shade to the next. The tidal river picked up some reflected color—red, salmon, pink—and the gold of the grasses seemed to glow. The red-winged blackbirds chuckled, and somewhere far away a wood thrush sang, rich and full.

This porch was perfect for sunset viewing. A little wicker couch, or two Adirondack chairs and a little table to hold your wineglass.

An osprey flew over me, its white belly and striped tail feathers picking up the gold of the setting sun. That would be in my painting, too. I glanced over my shoulder and saw someone driving over the bridge now, a pickup truck, its headlights sweeping the increasing dusk.

Yes. This would be my painting. This moment, right here, right now. Homecoming, I’d call it.

Not that I did that kind of thing anymore.

But suddenly, I wanted to.

I hadn’t painted a skyscape in years and years. Not since I left for school and found out the art world didn’t want pretty pictures of pretty places.

Fuck the art world. I headed inside for my camera to capture the colors, the moment, the scope and feeling.

Just as I went into the house, a pickup truck came into my driveway at top speed. I paused.

It was Noah, practically leaping out of his truck. “Sadie! Get out of the house!” Pepper ran to him, wagging her tail so hard it looked like it was going in circles as she yipped with joy.

“Hi!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

He ran up onto the porch, grabbed my arm and dragged me back into the yard. “Your sister texted me. You just knocked down a load-bearing wall.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

“Honey, get away from the house, okay?” He held my arms as if he wanted to plant me in place. “Let me see if I can get something up before the second floor falls in.”

Honey. He called me honey.

Le sigh.

Then I blinked. “What? Shit! Let me help you. What’s a load-bearing wall?”

“The kind that holds up the second floor.” He cut me a look. “You need to stop being handy.” He opened the door. “Jesus. You’re lucky you’re not buried right now. Come on. I have support beams in my truck. And a stepladder. Quick.”

I helped him haul the materials in.

Support beams, I quickly learned, were the kind that hold up second stories after people who watched too much HGTV did idiotic things. Noah quickly made two inverted Vs of fresh two-by-fours to hold up the second floor, securing them so they were jammed tight between floor and ceiling.