“What’s keeping you from gutting it and building something really gorgeous, something worthy of you and your beautiful family?”

Grant imagined transporting Nick’s house onto his lawn. He envisioned helicopters carrying it the way storks carried babies. Then he came to with a sigh. “Might not be possible. We’ll see what they decide after the public hearing.”

“Yeah, what a joke, right? A moratorium will never pass. It’s not even legal.” Nick drained his glass.

“I don’t know about that . . .”

“It’s legal? You’re shitting me.”

Grant nodded.

“What would it mean?” Nick’s voice crept up the register. “Crackdowns? Retroactive fines? Or worse? Are they going to make people tear down houses they decide don’t ‘fit in’?” He made air quotes. “It’s discrimination, that’s what. Discrimination against the successful.”

“My guess is what’s been approved, stays approved.”

“A ‘Petition for Peace.’ What a load of crap. You didn’t sign, did you?”

“Not me,” Grant said.

“I ought to start a petition of my own.”

“A Petition for War?”

Nick laughed. “I like you, Davenport.”

“Davenport-Gardner.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He clapped Grant on the shoulder.

Grant felt himself blush, more pleased than he would have liked to admit.

Nick grabbed another bottle of wine by its neck, like a chicken, tore off the foil with his teeth, and poured fresh glasses for them both.

ALLISON, BACK FROM REHEARSAL, SAT AT THE DINING ROOM TABLE with a cup of mint tea. It had been a good day after all, two Christmas card photo shoots and another afternoon of babysitting. Adam was fine company. She’d sung songs from Annie Get Your Gun to him while he lay on the couch, eyes closed. “Brava,” he’d cried whenever she finished a number, and “Encore.”

Ted, sitting opposite Allison, frowned over the enlarged map of the town spread across the table in front of him. Jillian sat at the head, math book and notebook open. “Domestic Life in Willard Park,” Allison thought, snapping an imaginary picture.

Ted had come home from work with flowers yesterday. He’d given her a kiss on the cheek as well.

“What’s wrong with Dad?” Jillian had said, worried by these uncharacteristic gestures, so they’d waited till bedtime to talk, side by side in their flannel pajamas in the dark.

He loved her. There was no doubt about that, he said. She closed her eyes, waiting for the “but,” which soon followed: He just needed a little break from intimacy for now. Not forever, he assured her, just for a little while. How long was a little while? she asked him, but he didn’t have an answer. “It’ll happen though. Then I’ll get right back on the horse!” he said, then, hearing how it sounded, amended, “I mean, back in the saddle.” Which was no better.