She frowned, thinking. When had she and Ted last had sex? She thought back over the past weeks. He didn’t like to on weekdays, when he knew he’d have to be up by six thirty. He was tired on Friday nights, after work. So, a Saturday. Any recent Saturday? She couldn’t recall one. He often went to bed early, to read, then was out cold by the time she came to bed. They’d spent a week at a rental in Rehoboth earlier this month—had they had sex then? It would have been the perfect time, no work to wake up for . . . but no. She’d tried a few times, snuggling close in bed, rubbing his back, but he had just planted a big kiss on her cheek and wished her sweet dreams. July then. They must have had sex in July. Yes, she could remember the perfect storm of a Saturday night, when she raced to bed at the same time he did, not giving him time to pick up his book before she launched herself into his arms.

When was the last time he had initiated it though? She puzzled, thinking back through the summer and into the previous spring.

Nick must have felt her standing there, staring. He looked over at her and tipped his hard hat. Allison nodded at him, a waggle of electricity wiggling through her despite herself.

“Well, good morning to you, Mrs. Miller,” he said.

“Mr. Cox, how do you do this fine day?”

“I do very well, thank you. Very well indeed.”

She laughed; when had they started this little game of theirs, referring to each other as “mister” and “missus”?

“Be sure to leave a few standing, won’t you? For the sake of photosynthesis, Mr. Cox?”

“I’ll consider it, Mrs. Miller. I can assure you I will,” he said, bowing a little, in a silly, courtly manner.

Then he set the chain saw on the ground, put his foot on it, and pulled the starter. He touched its blade to one of the lesser trees near the new house. Its branches swung down to the ground, as if bowing in the presence of a higher god. A few other small trees followed suit. Then, without missing a beat, Nick Cox sunk the teeth of the saw into Jillian’s red maple, splitting it in two.

2

AUGUST 31—AFTERNOON

I know you weren’t really considering Maryland,” their realtor, Nina Strauss, was saying, “but I just wanted to show you one neighborhood, if you still have the energy . . .”

Grant, sitting in the backseat of her BMW, behind his wife, Suzanne, was going to shoot himself if he had to look at another neighborhood—but it was up to Suzanne, he reminded himself. It was totally up to her.