“I read when I have to. That’s good enough.”

Doug shook his head. “After this show’s over, the television goes off. You find something else to do.”

“God,” Billy said disgustedly.

Trish came out of the bedroom, putting on her sunglasses, her purse over her shoulder, keys in hand. She was wearing new white shorts and a thin white sailor shirt, her long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. “What do you think?” she asked, turning around, fashion-model-style. “Susan St. James?”

“Abe Vigoda,” Doug said.

She punched his shoulder.

“That hurt.”

“It was supposed to.” She picked up her grocery list from the counter. “Anything else we need besides milk, bread, and dinner food?”

“Cokes,” Billy said.

“We’ll see,” she said, putting the list into her purse.

Doug handed her the application envelope and followed her onto the porch as she walked outside to the Bronco.

“Cokes!” Billy called again from inside.

She smiled, getting into the car. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Doug gave her a quick kiss through the open window. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Tomorrow you paint, though.”

“Tomorrow I paint,” he agreed.

Tritia backed out of the drive and headed down the dirt road toward town. She rolled up the Bronco’s windows to keep out the dust and turned on the air-conditioning. The first blast of air was stale and humid, but it quickly turned refreshingly cold and dry as she drove past the other houses scattered along this stretch of forest. The road curved around the side of a hill, then dipped down to the level of the creek. She sped over the lowered crossing with the confidence of a native, the Bronco’s tires spraying up water as they rolled through the stream.

She slowed down as the dirt became pavement and she passed the first cross street. She was glad that it was summer, that Doug was off work, but she could tell she was going to have to lay down a few ground rules—the way she did each summer. Yes, he was on vacation, and that was good, but she needed a vacation too and, unfortunately, there was no way to take time off from being a mother and housewife. They were full-time, year-round occupations. If left to his own devices, Doug would spend the entire summer veging out, reading on the porch, doing absolutely nothing. It was up to her to point out that the meals he ate had to be cooked, that the dishes afterward had to be washed, that the house required constant maintenance and did not just rejuvenate itself. He couldn’t be expected to be a mother, but he could help out around the place: vacuum, do the dishes, rake the yard. She would still do the lion’s share of the work, but it would help immensely if some of the duties were divided.