Joad took Andrew’s calloused hand as they approached the big river house. They had been invited for ten past seven, just in time for sunset. She imagined how they must look from a distance at that moment: a shaggy giant escorting a child. This physical disparity was an especially popular aspect of their blog: Joad and Andrew: Living Life from Scratch, a brightly illustrated farm diary with a growing number of followers, mostly youngish city people toggling between Joad’s recipes for soaked breakfast porridge and real estate listings up the Hudson. Joad, with her short black shag and high cheekbones, contrasted beautifully with ruddy Andrew, whose rawboned face, bulbous nose, and one drooping eyelid lent him an aura of early-settler depth—at least in photographs, of which there were many on the site, capturing the couple planting and harvesting, Joad kneading dough, and Andrew fixing machinery. Joad wrote the blog in a voice both cheerful and down to earth, making their way of life seem so appealing that the reader’s mouth watered as their envy was aroused by her descriptions of the warmed-up apple pie the couple often ate for breakfast, the pork chops from their neighbor’s hog, the soups and the stews and the time spent walking in the woods, gathering mushrooms. It had only been eleven months, but Joad and Andrew’s foray into self-determination had begun to make a splash.

Their steps crunched the pebbles of the long drive as the river house drew nearer, an imposing, square mansion painted dove gray with scarlet shutters. They had been told to walk around the side to the porch. As they complied, they saw, like a carved figure at the prow of a great ship, a statuesque woman gazing down at them, the ripples of her long white dress seemingly frozen in place, a bright orange cocktail glowing in her hand.