Nick held up his hand. “Not now, Eliza. I don’t want to discuss this now. I don’t want to hit the PLAY button on this same old conversation.” He patted her leg, unsure if he was trying to ease her frustration or his own.

For many years he’d done well enough with a large corporation in Maine that Harlan Sullivan had seen fit to offer him a job at his company. Nick’s job with Sullivan Timber did have its advantages—he utilized his expertise in resource management and wildlife preservation, and as an added bonus, he didn’t have to listen to Eliza lamenting the perils of living up north when she longed for the South. Surely the fact that he worked for the family company and that she had moved back to her hometown would decrease the whining, but no, she always wanted more—wanted him to climb the social as well as the corporate ladder. He couldn’t care less if he made it to the first rung as long as he could have his hands in soil, be truly involved in some part of the work he loved.

He sighed. The landscape danced past the car window in harmony with the tires’ thump against the pavement as they drove the two hours back to their house in Garvey. Nick glanced over at his wife as they pulled into the driveway. She was leaning back against the headrest; her mouth was slightly open in sleep. He looked back up to the house—white pillars, resembling the bars of some pristine prison, stood guard over a front porch with an all-white wicker couch, rocking chairs and swing.

Fresh lawn-mower marks covered the front lawn; it looked like someone had vacuumed the grass in a crisscross pattern. The landscaping company must have come while he and Eliza were at the game. They liked to arrive when he wasn’t home—they didn’t appreciate him coming out, telling them where to prune, cut or leave his plants alone.

As he stared at the landscape of his home, his life, an honest question rose out of long-held patterns of denial—how in the hell had he come to live in this spotless house that, eight years later, still smelled of new carpet and wet paint, on a manicured, construction paper-cutout lawn, when he wanted to live in the middle of forest, tree and plant?

He closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids.

Eliza stirred and Nick reached over and touched her cheek. She opened her eyes and turned to him, smiled.

“Hmm,” she murmured.

“We’re home.”

“I didn’t even realize how tired I was.”

“Me neither,” he said. And he meant it, as fatigue settled into his bones at the thought that there was no use trying to figure out might-have-beens; yet there they were, roaring at him with a fierceness he had thought squelched.

Chapter Three

Chapter Three