Kevin walked into the dining room with the menu. Claartija deJong stood stretching by the double glass doors, one leg on the floor, the other balanced on a chair. She wore a white chef’s outfit, her hair pulled back with a blue rubber band.

Here it is, Kevin announced, flapping the menu as if to dry.

The fonts were too small, but they’d have to do. He handed the piece of paper to Claartija, who inspected the list:

Hen of the Wood Mushroom Duxelles on Toast Points

Corn Chowder

Goose Confit

Coulibiac of Nova Scotia Salmon / Venison Roast

Grilled Haricots Verts

Fresh Field Green Vinaigrette with Trachis Island Chèvre

Seasonal Fruit / Mont Blanc Vanilla Cream

He and Claartija had prepared the meal for days, the coulibiac in parchment paper, the venison marinated in buttermilk; and here was the final menu. Everything was ready now in the kitchen. Everything either prepped or cooked or simmering on the stove.

Claartija handed him back the piece of paper. It looks all right, she said.

Kevin waited for more. What he wanted her to notice—but she hadn’t yet—was that all the elements were represented in the menu: something from the air (the goose), the land (the venison), the sea (the salmon), the soil itself (potatoes, fungus, greens). But Claartija said nothing, and he doubted anyone else would notice. Years ago it might have mattered—back when he’d first opened the inn and hovered outside the dining room door hoping to hear comments about his cooking. It stung him then to see a plate returned with food still on it. Yet not anymore. He cooked because he loved to, because it gave him pleasure. If someone noticed the subtleties of his cuisine, all the better. The important thing was: They enjoy the food.

Kevin took the menu, and Claartija dropped her foot from the chair.

I just riced the chestnuts for the Mont Blanc, she said.

Did you follow the recipe?

She rolled her eyes.

Sorry, Kevin said.

The roast went in about fifteen minutes ago.

Kevin was about to say something else when the deafening roar of the lawn mower drowned out his voice. Douglas passed the window just then on the riding mower. They watched him through the screens in his muscle shirt, backing up, going forward, checking the swath he’d just cut. He wore bright orange ear protectors; he didn’t even notice them standing inside the dining room four feet away.

Kevin shook his head after he’d gone. He’ll do that all afternoon if he has his way.

What’s with him and that machine? Claartija asked.

Kevin shrugged. It’s his form of relaxation. Some people do yoga. He does mow-ga.

Claartija made a face. Awf, she said and flicked a finger at his arm. I’ve got things to do.

Kevin smirked; Claartija headed back to the kitchen.