The barstools were removed earlier this week in anticipation of the kitchen renovation, so I sit at the table. I’m not sure what we’ll do next week, when the contractors begin work in this part of the house. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.

Remodeling has been an experience. I keep forgetting that Cole, we, have money. I asked for a two-car garage. He had a space built to hold more cars than any two people will ever need. I suggested a walk-in shower. We have something that looks like you need a degree in electronics to operate it. And the day after I suggested a bigger closet to hold both of our things, a room was being built . . . on the other side of the soaking tub that I apparently mumbled about in my sleep.

I have to watch what I say to my husband—even when I’m sleeping. He knows no bounds and takes every opportunity he can to spoil me.

“Here you go,” he says, setting a plate in front of me.

“This looks great.”

“Mom’s recipe.” He sits across from me, having eaten earlier with Ethan while I napped. “I hope you like it.”

The first bite melts in my mouth. The spices—Casey’s secret blend that Cole won’t share with me—are both aromatic and delicious.

“This is so good. It makes me want to fall in love with you all over again.”

He beams. “Thank you, my lady. I’ve realized that hers are better than the ones I pull from the internet.”

I laugh. “You’re talking about the lasagna, aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

His laughter mixes with mine as we remember the lasagna that he made last week. It was highly inedible and resulted in corn dogs from King Pin Alley for dinner—something that didn’t upset Ethan at all.

“Your dad called while you were talking to the contractor,” I tell him. “He said your mom is on the way to pick up Ethan and that you have a closing tomorrow morning at eight. He wanted me to remind you because he’s pretty sure you didn’t write it down.”

“Shit. No, I forgot. I’m glad he called because I was going to play golf with Bud in the morning.”

I sit back in my chair and grin.

I’ve never been happier.

Sometimes I pinch myself to see if I will wake up from this life that feels like a dream. A handsome, kind husband who went from the big leagues to president of the Bloomfield Little League. From sand and salt water to rental houses and real estate.

He sits back in his chair. “The house we’re closing on tomorrow is the one by the post office with the blue siding. Do you know the one I mean?”

“Yeah,” I say, cutting a piece of meatloaf. “Val says she wants to transfer her lease to that one.”