Maybe just as the Ranch could be rehabilitated, turned into something new, their relationship could be revived. It would be something else. They wouldn’t bicker. She wouldn’t judge his conventionality and he, in turn, would be less conventional.

With the energy of new love, she devoted herself to making the Ranch better each day—she got recommendations from Sophie on daily housekeepers, what sort of toiletries to put in the bathrooms, and how to order labels printed with the Ranch’s name. Marianne had no plan to provide lotions or shampoos, or to adhere personalized labels to the bottles, but Sophie said this was a must, otherwise she’d have people asking to borrow hers. “And toothbrushes, get a drawerful,” she said. Sophie had been working on a whole Genesis-themed garden: Adam and Eve in fig leaves, Eve being tempted by the serpent, Cain slaying Abel. It was less sordid than before. Slightly.

“Great!” Eric said, every time they Skyped and she reported something new. She’d sent a welcome letter to the students; she’d been in touch with the teachers; she’d organized and added to the small library. She’d learned Excel while watching the first Republican primary debates, and had kept her cool when the libertarian doctor said it was okay to let the uninsured die, just kept adding columns and formulas. She’d learned Excel.

And she’d written: three new poems, which after all was the point of being here, wasn’t it? To write, if not alongside the students then on some parallel track of interest and productivity.

“I think I need to meet Frances,” she told Eric in February. “I think it’s time.”

Eric hesitated so long she was afraid her internet had failed and she’d have to redial. Finally he said he’d never heard Marianne so confident, so productive, so—happy? Was she happy there, in Florida?

Was she? It wasn’t happiness so much as having a purpose. Doing for others—those mysterious and hopeful others who would soon fill the rooms of Genesis Ranch, who would fill the pages of their notebooks and files of their computers, perhaps even the shelves of bookstores and libraries, with their inspirational writing. This was what Frances had asked of her and she’d done it, she was thinking each time she called the Largo Shores Club and asked to be connected with Mrs. Ketterling. But it was hard to reach her. The first time she called, Frances was playing tennis; the next time, she was shopping. There was a weekend trip to Orlando. Finally they spoke by phone. In an unbroken monologue Marianne told her what she’d done.

“Wonderful,” Frances said briskly. Her voice was strong and assured, the consonants sharp. “It sounds remarkable, exactly like my nephew described.”

Before Marianne could thank her, she continued: “And you are pleased with the students you selected?”