On Island Time

On her way home from work, Leigh goes over the list of things she cannot forget to pack: hiking boots, a trowel, a gallon of Scarlet Ibis paint, extra paintbrushes, four yards of fabric in a William Morris pattern that Sylvia had special-ordered from a mainland fabric shop, six dozen empty wine bottles, a curd knife, and cheesecloth. They'd run out on Leigh’s last visit, and both grocery stores on the island didn’t stock it.

It's late evening as she heads east over the 520. In the rearview mirror, the setting sun is a pink wafer, dipping behind the lavender lace band of the Olympic Mountains. She’d rather be traveling north on the 5; with no traffic, she could easily make the last midnight ferry and drive on with no wait. She has taken that ferry many times, and although the glorious views of the San Juan Islands would be absent, swallowed up by darkness, she likes standing on the bow of the upper passenger deck and watching the white hull cut into the water, black as squid ink. But she is exhausted, has laundry to do, and will have to wait until the following morning with the scads of tourists vying for an early sailing. Besides, she should probably spend time with her boyfriend Adam; she’s hardly seen him since her stint of twelve-hour shifts began three days ago.

At home, she’s dismayed to see Adam’s suitcase sitting in the entryway of their apartment. Visiting his parents with her isn’t usually on his list of priorities. She kicks off her clogs and opens the fridge. There is little to choose from; two lagers, half a head of iceberg lettuce that has gone yellow around the edges, eggs, a few slices of sourdough, and an avocado of questionable ripeness. She hears his gaming chair squeak and the plod of bare feet down the hallway. He appears in the kitchen, possibly in the same rumpled outfit he was wearing when she left for work that morning. He’s 6’4” in stocking feet, wide shouldered, bearded, and four-eyed. A literary lumberjack. His beard is thick but at 28, his red hair is thinning prematurely. She considers herself a feminist, but there’s something to be said for a man who could easily sling you over his shoulder.

“There's no groceries,” he announces.

“So I see.”

“I saved the last two beers for you. I figured you'd want them at the end of your shifts.” Leigh is reminded of a movie where a high school boy saves his cookie from his lunch and gives it to his crush, as if his show of restraint would be interpreted as affection. What she would’ve liked would be for her unemployed boyfriend to have a hot meal waiting for her. Or at least, the ingredients to make one. She takes the beers, bread, avocado, and eggs from the fridge, handing him a bottle. “Thanks,” he says.

“It’ll have to be eggs on avocado toast. Have you eaten?”

“I had cereal.” She pulls out the frying pan. Her feet are so sore she doesn't think she can stand for another minute. “Want me to help,” he asks.

“I thought you’d never ask.” She is particular about her eggs but knows he will cook them perfectly. It's not that he doesn't know how to cook; what frustrates her is that he chooses not to.

“Are you going to the island in the morning,” he asks, popping the bread into the toaster.

“Yes. Are you coming?”

“I thought I might.”

“I thought you hated going up in high season. All the traffic in town, and the long wait to get up there.”

“It shouldn't be too bad on a Thursday.” He adds butter to the hot skillet then cracks the eggs, dropping them in carefully. “Or we could go somewhere else.” he adds.

“Like where?”

“Vancouver? The Oregon Coast?” A sudden bout of wanderlust? Highly suspicious.

“I'd have to pay for a hotel and food then.” As if she needs to remind him who would be footing the bills. “And your parents won't be there.”

“A decided advantage!” He gestures wildly with the spatula.

“Like that's such a bad thing. You'd prefer my parents?” She thinks of how terrible it must’ve been, growing up with people who encourage you all the time.

“We could camp. You’re always saying how we never go camping anymore.”

“All the good campgrounds will be reserved. And what if they call you for a second interview?”

“They're not going to call.” The toaster pops up suddenly, startling her. He doesn't flinch. He butters the toast and slides an egg onto each piece.

“Here,” he says, setting everything in front of her.

“No avocado?”

“It was rotten to the core.”

“Oh well. Thanks for cooking,” she says, and she means it. She must be grateful for the little things. The opaque egg whites are soft and perfectly cooked. She takes a bite and follows it with a long swig of beer.

The next morning, she has difficulty rousing him from bed, as if he worked 36 hours in the last 3 days, and not her. By the time they are finally on the road, there’s no hope of catching her desired sailing. When they packed the car, Adam had put the wine bottles in the back seat instead of the trunk, and on the freeway, they rattle annoyingly in their cardboard boxes.

They inevitably argue about what to listen to on the drive. They can never agree on music, nor does he want to listen to the audiobook she got from the library. They decide on the alphabet game and then can’t agree on a category. She wants a subject like authors or artists; he wants countries and the periodic elements. They finally settle on animals, but then he starts naming things like Canis vulpes and Equus asinus, something she would’ve found endearing when they were first dating, but that she now finds annoying. 

They make it through one round and then ride in silence until they reach the ferry terminal in Anacortes. An hour later, they are the last car to board the 12:30 ferry. On the upper passenger deck, they sit quietly. He’s glued to his phone, and she can’t tear her eyes away from the scenery that never ceases to amaze her with its haunting beauty.

The town of Friday Harbor is crowded with pedestrians and cars trying to navigate streets lacking traffic lights and crosswalk signals. At the fairgrounds, the farmer's market is in full swing. They find Sylvia's booth where she’s selling bottles of homemade wine and some divided plants and cuttings from her garden. She wears a powder-blue hemp shirt and linen pants. Strands of her pewter hair peek out from behind a sun hat that hasn't kept her skin from turning the color of toasted pine nuts. She is 57 years old and looks ten years younger. She gives them both deep, welcoming hugs. Her scent is homey, like cinnamon and nutmeg, as if she spent the entire morning baking.

“You picked a great day to come up, it was cats and dogs yesterday! How was traffic?”

“Fine,” Leigh says simultaneously with Adam's, “Horrible.”

“It was fine,” she insists. “We were the last car on though.”

“I'm sorry you had to drive on instead of walking on. Let me reimburse you for transporting all my cargo.”

“Pfft! I’ll take a bottle of Loon Song Lane wine as payment,” Leigh says. Sylvia’s wares are named after her street.

“You got here just in time, I'm about to run out. By the way, Adam, your label design is getting lots of compliments.” She hands them a bottle of peach wine and Leigh surveys his handiwork. The black and white image is of a loon floating on a lake of wine, spilling out of an upturned wine bottle. The skeletal outline of trees fringes the perimeter of the label. Leigh had thought it too Gorey-esque, and not at all a befitting representation of his parents’ colorful, inviting homestead. But she’d held her tongue, not wanting to discourage him.

“It did turn out well if I do say so myself,” Adam says. He has dabbled in graphic design. He excels at dabbling. He has graduated summa cum laude with a Ph.D. in dabbling.

“How’s Henry doing,” Leigh asks. Adam’s stepdad Henry recently had hernia surgery.

“I’m worried he’s doing some physical activity he shouldn’t be doing yet,” Sylvia admits.

“I’ll text you if he’s misbehaving. I thought I’d get started priming the side porch,” Leigh says.

“You must be exhausted. Go home and relax. I'll see you later.” Leigh gives her another hug, her heart swelling at Sylvia’s use of the word “home.” A retired nurse, Sylvia understands how tiring shift work can be.

Leigh recognizes the goat cheese vendor and stops to say hi. She and Sylvia went to a goat cheese and wine pairing at their farm on Leigh’s last visit. They both got too tipsy and giggled like schoolgirls over some of the more outlandish flavors. A jar of amber honey catches her attention, and she thinks of Nick, a resident in the ICU she’s had lunch with a few times. Twice before, they'd gone with other coworkers, but last week it ended up being just the two of them.

They went to Voula’s, a popular Greek breakfast joint near the hospital. She learned that he grew up in Toronto and that his grandparents emigrated to Canada from Greece. He makes baklava when he is homesick for his mom's cooking. When he asked her about her family, she talked only of Sylvia and Henry. When travel came up, he described his backpacking trip around Greece and Spain with relish. She had to admit she’s never been out of America, but he seemed impressed by the number of national parks she’s visited.

Somehow the movie Strange Brew came up and he was shocked that someone who was only 29 years old had heard of such an obscure 80s film. She had to quote extensively from the film until he finally accepted that she’d seen it. He was highly amused by her attempt at a goofy Canadian accent and touched her forearm in a moment of delight, the briefest physical contact that despite its brevity gave her a lingering thrill. Since then, when no other staff members are around, she calls him hoser or hosehead, and he’ll tell her to make sure there’s not a mouse in the IV bags, eh. She takes more joy in their private joke than she should.

She buys the honey and Adam appears, holding the remnants of what looks like a blackberry galette.

“Where's mine?”

“Uhm, over there?” He points to the bakery's booth. “You want the last bite?”

“I’ll get my own.”

“What's the honey for?”

“It's for a friend.” Technically, she isn’t lying. She buys a galette, rhubarb tarts, and pain au chocolat to share. Back in the car, she regrets her impromptu purchase of the honey—what would Nick think if she gave it to him? Would he remember that he told her about his love of baking baklava? But she imagines him in his kitchen, brushing butter onto layers of phyllo dough with his dexterous hands, reaching for the honey jar and thinking of her.

It's a 15-minute drive to Sylvia's and Henry’s house. They’ve named their homestead Loon Song Grange. They wind inland, passing through scenic stretches of green and yellow fields dotted with farmhouses, ponds, tractors, and hay bales. They pass the local winery and an alpaca farm. Towering Oceanspray bushes with their frothy, white plumage, wild Nootka rose bushes, and California Poppies color the landscape. Leigh cranks open the sunroof to take in the island breeze, tinged ever so faintly with the scent of salt. Red-winged blackbirds shrill their distinctive calls. Leigh drives under the speed limit, on the lookout for black-tailed deer and foxes. “You drive like a local,” Adam complains and Leigh smiles. They continue west towards Lime Kiln Point until they reach Loon Song Lane.

The house sits on a half-acre of meadowland, the surrounding countryside frequented by fox, deer, raccoons, and the occasional sea lion. When Sylvia bought it, it was a tiny, boxy structure consisting of a bare-bones kitchen, a bathroom, and a single bedroom. The day it went on the market, a dozen people showed up to view it. The owner was a woman named Janet who lived alone with her pet goat, and during the Open House, the goat put its front hooves on the kitchen sink and lapped water out of the faucet. Janet explained that she was selling the house to move to the mainland to begin chemo treatments. While the other potential buyers glanced at the goat uncomfortably, Sylvia had petted it affectionately and engaged Janet in conversation about her diagnosis. Sylvia was a retired oncology nurse and had talked with Janet about her treatment options and non-traditional approaches to dealing with cancer, long after the others had left. Despite receiving better offers, Janet sold the house to Sylvia.

Leigh parks in the gravel driveway and surveys the house, remarking as she always does at its transformation and how she had a hand in it. A covered porch was added to the front of the house and rocking chairs and potted ferns grace the entrance. They chose a neutral beige for the exterior paint so that it would blend harmoniously into the landscape. Ornamental grasses are intermingled with drought-tolerant, deer-resistant perennials that Leigh and Sylvia chose carefully, silvery-sage Artemesia, yellow Yarrow, and purple Salvias. A large patio with slate stones was added to the side of the house; wooly Thyme grows between the gaps of gray stone. The goat’s pen has been transformed into a chicken coop. The front door opens, and Henry appears in the doorway.

“Hello the house! I come bearing pastries,” Leigh calls out.

“Then you are most welcome, milady!” Henry gives a flourish as he descends the porch steps to greet them. She’s certain that in Henry's previous lives, he has been a knight, an Elizabethan actor, a sea captain, and a shaman. A retired history professor, he’s become a pillar of the island community in the five years they’ve lived there. His latest volunteer efforts have been building props for the local theater company.

The interior of the house has also undergone a major transformation. The kitchen has been updated with new cabinets and countertops. In the living room, Hobbes the family cat naps in a basket in front of the fireplace. White beadboard covers the lower half of the butter-yellow walls, and family photos and paintings by island artists sit atop a long line of picture ledges. Large picture windows show off the pond and meadow views. An entire second story was added to take in the peek-a-boo views of the Haro Straits. A mudroom was added for easy patio access.

Leigh sets the pastries on the kitchen counter then gives Hobbes an affectionate kiss on his grizzled head. She’s thankful for the moment of being alone in the home she’s come to love so much. She can’t help but think of the home she fled, its roof leaking in spots, her bedroom door torn clean off its hinges, and a front door that didn’t lock. When she hears Henry asking if he can help unload the car, she bolts outside.

“Oh no you don’t!” Adam takes the box of wine bottles that Henry was about to remove from the car.

“Surely there’s something I can carry,” Henry begs.

“No, there’s not,” Leigh insists, and then in unison with Adam, “and stop calling me Shirley.” Leigh directs Henry’s attention to the lid of the paint can. “What do you think?”

Henry inspects the dab of paint. “It's definitely bright, isn't it?”

“I hope it will do the trick. Any more victims lately?”

“One, I'm afraid. A Nuthatch.” Birds have been crashing into the mudroom’s large window. The plan is to paint the interior a bright red and hang curtains in the window so that the birds will stop flying into the glass. They’ve managed to save the birds that were merely stunned by moving them inside before the foxes could get to them, but a few have died on impact. 

Adam had suggested leaving the dead birds in the meadow for the foxes, but Leigh couldn’t bear the thought of their plump, feathered bodies being torn apart. She started a bird graveyard beneath a giant Douglas Fir tree. They’ve buried several birds there in small boxes that Leigh lined with scraps of fabric. At each bird’s burial, Henry would read an Ode by Keats or Shelley to some type of bird that the dead bird wasn't. Adam declared the whole thing to be an exercise in the ridiculous.

Leigh is ready to get her hands dirty with a mindless project, but where to begin? Painting? Sewing? Or she could go on a walk. She ends up in a hammock with a racy romance novel and a glass of peach wine, and within minutes she is fast asleep.

It’s several hours later when she awakes. Someone has covered her with a blanket. She swings herself out of the hammock, her back sore from having slept in such an awkward position. A bug has drowned itself in her wineglass; she digs it out and downs the remnants. She checks her messages and is surprised to see that Nick has texted her. The summer lineup of outdoor movies at the Seattle Center has been announced, and Strange Brew is on the list. He wants to know if she’d like to go “just as friends.” She wonders if he added that because he knows she’s in a relationship.

She circles the house, her body stiff and joints creaking like they belong to someone much older. The breeze rustles the tall grasses and carries the sound of the chickens clucking contentedly in their pen. Honeybees tuck into the lavender plants and bird calls emanate from the surrounding trees. From the house, the sound of pots and pans clanging emerges. Sylvia has just started preparing dinner. Henry sits in his favorite armchair, reading the newspaper with Hobbes on his lap. Adam intently studies the screen of the desktop computer and rolls his eyes at Leigh. “Mom downloaded another virus,” he says quietly.

“Did you have a good nap,” Sylvia asks. Leigh tucks her phone into her back pocket.

“I did. Can I help with dinner?”

“Are you too tired to do much cooking?”

“No, I'd love to help. I haven't had time to cook all week.”

“We could whip up some pasta. I've got mozzarella and ricotta left from our last batch of cheese making, and the goat cheese you picked up at the farmer's market.”

“Did I see squash in the fridge? I saw a recipe on Instagram for squash ravioli.”

“I heartily approve of where this is heading,” Henry says.

“What about a sauce?”

“Do you have any basil left in the garden? How about pesto?”

Henry begins applauding. “Shall I fetch some basil from the garden? Or am I too weak and fragile to bend over and pluck herbs?”

“That would be most helpful, dear.” Sylvia gives Leigh the same eye roll that Adam gave her a minute ago.

Sylvia forms an indented mound of flour on the marble countertop. Leigh pulls the eggs from the refrigerator and cracks them into the flour. As they work, they discuss the latest island gossip, the Netflix series they’ve both been binging, and the more intriguing cases that Leigh has seen in the ICU. She makes a concerted effort to keep her tone neutral when mentioning Nick. Working seamlessly together, they roll out the long sheets of pasta, form them into ravioli, and drop them into boiling water. Henry slips into the kitchen at precisely the right moment and gathers plates, napkins, and silverware, setting the table without having to be asked to do so.

“I have exciting news,” Henry says once they’ve gathered around the table. “In exchange for building props for Island Theater Company's production of Twelfth Night, I received four tickets to this Saturday's performance.” Every summer, the theater company puts on a series of outdoor plays including one by Shakespeare. Attendees bring their own chairs, blankets, picnics, and wine. It’s the summer event that Leigh most looks forward to. “In addition to the free tickets, we've also been invited to the backstage party after the play,” Henry adds.

“That's so cool! Won't it be fun to hobnob with the actors,” Leigh says excitedly.

“Three hours of sitting in the cold, getting eaten by mosquitoes? That’s a hard no for me,” Adam says. Leigh wrinkles her nose in disgust. She doesn't know why she thought he might want to go. She’s reminded of the Debbie Downer Saturday Night Live skit and suppresses the urge to make the wah-wah sound that comically punctuates the end of Debbie’s negative rants.

“Well, you don't have to go if you don’t want to,” Henry says after an uncomfortable silence. “But I thought you might want to check out your old man's handiwork? Enjoy a family outing?”

“Maybe if it was a tragedy.”

“Adam, I really wish you’d go” Sylvia says. “There'll be someone at the play I'd like you to meet.”

“Let me guess—it's something to do with a job.”

“Yes, but hear me out. I met a local graphic designer who inquired about the label you did for the wine bottles. He works from home and says he'd be happy to meet with you and answer any questions.”

“Mom, I don't want to be a graphic designer.”

“Why not? You have a knack for design and technology. Seattle Central College has a certificate program. We’ve told you a hundred times—just pick a school. We'll cover your tuition.” Leigh has heard this a hundred times too, and each time, she is always amazed by their generosity and the fact that Adam has yet to take advantage of it. She wonders what it would be like to be able to go to any college, regardless of cost. 

Her first year of community college, she was drawn to art and literature classes, but knew that a liberal arts degree was unlikely to result in a well-paying job after graduation. She started dating Adam and it was due to Sylvia's influence that she ended up pursuing a nursing degree. But if she had to do it over again, she wouldn’t choose a career in nursing. She’ll never understand how Adam has squandered so many opportunities. But sometimes, she wonders if being told you can be anything you want is worse than being told you’ll never amount to anything.

The next day, Leigh and Sylvia spend the morning working on the side porch. It’s unusually hot and the sun beats down; there isn't a cloud in the sky. In between coats of primer and paint, Sylvia sews the curtains and Leigh brings Adam glasses of water and lemonade then makes him re-apply sunscreen. He’s digging holes for fence posts that are being installed to keep the deer out of the garden. He’s covered in sweat, but he toils on, and she wonders how he could build her a house if she asked him to, but he can’t hold down a day job. When they break for lunch, Sylvia suggests they take the rest of the day off.

“How about we go for a walk,” Adam says.

“You’re not too tired?” Leigh usually has to twist his arm to get him to go on a walk.

“I just need a hot shower and I’m good to go. Give me ten minutes.” He disappears into the bathroom.

“Sylvia? Henry? Care to join us?” Sylvia bustles about the kitchen and Henry insists on finishing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper.

“I'll finish painting while you’re gone,” Sylvia says.

“I should stay and help you!”

“Nonsense. You kids have a nice walk. Where will you go, American Camp?” The hike through the grasslands and forest of American Camp is Leigh's favorite walk on the island.

“That sounds good,” she says.

When Adam’s ready, they head toward the southern end of the island until the road is a lilting gray ribbon before them, threading its way through hills of yellow grassland stretching as far as the eye can see. He’s in an upbeat mood, whistling along with a song on the radio. It must be all the endorphins from his exercise. He pulls the car off the main road and into the parking lot of the Jakle's Lagoon trailhead. From this point, two trails are open to them. To their left, the forest trail leads into an ominous-looking glade of towering Douglas Fir trees. To the right, the tall prairie grasses bob and sway, a cheerful contrast to the gloomy forest. They take the trail to the left.

The trail leads them downward, deep into the forest. Western Hemlock and Red Cedars grow in the shadows of the Fir trees, protected from wind, salt, and sun. Verdant saplings dot the withered spines of nurse logs. Leigh wistfully remembers the last time that they took this hike together, three years ago on Halloween. They’d decided to walk it after dark, armed only with flashlights and their overactive imaginations. Leigh had been terrified the batteries would give out, leaving them to stumble blindly through the forest. Even the light from a full moon would not have been able to penetrate the thick canopy of trees. She’d swung her flashlight wildly at the sound of every hooting owl, and at one point, a deer burst onto their path and startled her. But that was the only time she was truly frightened. The rest of the time, she’d been feigning her terror, knowing nothing could harm her and feeling safe with Adam there.

They’d taken the path to the lagoon and turned off their flashlights. The moonlight shone on the crescent of water and reflected off the bleached logs lined up in the water like an ossuary of old bones. The witch's cauldron, he’d named it. He used to come up with the cleverest names for things. Double, double, toil and trouble, he’d said as he reached for her hand, stroking between her fingers. Something wicked this way comes, she replied and then they were kissing, gently at first before it deepened into something wild. 

They scrambled to remove the least amount of clothing possible in the brisk autumn air. She pushed him down onto the damp, mossy earth and melted into him like liquid caramel on a hard apple. The scent of evergreens was like an intoxicant and the thought of unknown things beneath their bodies somehow added to her excitement. He was her first lover, her only lover, and their bodies fit together in that way they do when two people must figure out together how everything works.

There’s no possibility of a repeat performance, and not just because it’s daylight. The uphill climb out of the forest and into the grassland is steep. At the summit, they pause to catch their breath, taking in the view. The prairie wavers like an endless yellow sheet billowing from a clothesline. Canada is visible across the Haro Strait, and she thinks of Nick and his text. They head back in the direction they came. At the summit of Mt. Finlayson, they can see waves crashing onto the rocky shoreline of South Beach. Leigh cannot imagine a more beautiful view anywhere else in the world.

“Want to sit,” Adam asks. They settle on a long, flat boulder. “Are you upset about last night,” he asks.

“About you not going to the play? A bit. Henry would’ve appreciated your support.”

“So, you're not upset about the fact that I wouldn't be going with you, but that by not going, I'm not supporting Henry?” Has he really brought her all the way up her to have this argument?

“I can understand that it's not your thing.” She doesn't mention that she enjoys it more when he isn't there.

“I was referring to what my mom said. About design school.” He drags out the last two words as if they are the most ridiculous words in the English language. Leigh isn't quite sure what to say. She doesn't nag him about finding a job as hard as his mom does, not because she isn't as frustrated. In fact, she's probably more frustrated; Sylvia hasn't been supporting him financially for the last year. But unlike Sylvia, she knows that all the nagging in the world won't do any good. If anything, it just makes him more resistant to change.

“I wish you would just choose something. Either go back to school or take any job you can get. Just do something.” She draws out this last word as if it is the most ridiculous word in the English language.

“I know it’s been hard on you. And I never say thank you. I am thankful, and I'm sorry for not saying it more often.” She wonders if he's aware that he still hasn't said it.

“Is that why you came along on this trip? To thank me?”

“No, I had another purpose in mind. I thought I might ask you to marry me.” This is the last thing Leigh expects to hear. They've never discussed marriage before, either jokingly or seriously. It's not that she doesn’t want to get married; like most girls, she imagined her dream wedding when she was little. She’s also imagined the proposal, and loves how they happen in movies, the ring hidden in a piece of chocolate cake at a restaurant or a baseball game with Will you marry me? on the Jumbotron. Something well thought out, not spontaneous. The wedding could be spontaneous, but not the proposal, because she knows that when someone asks a question of that magnitude, it has to be well thought out. She’s never imagined it happening quite like this. She’s not certain that he’s even asking.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” He studies her face, as if his next move is dependent on what he sees there. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a box. She has seen this box before, and now it’s beginning to feel surreal. Inside is Sylvia's mother's wedding ring, in an Art Deco design, intricate and beautiful. A family heirloom. Sylvia showed it to her once when going through family photos and mementos. Seeing it now, she realizes that she wants nothing more than to be Sylvia's daughter-in-law. But she’s not so sure that she wants to be Adam's wife. She stares at the ring in Adam’s grasp, her heart palpating. She has no idea what to say.

“Adam, I don't think this is the best timing.”

“What does timing have to do with it? You either want to marry me or you don't.”

“We can’t get married if you're unemployed.”

“I can get a job,” he says impatiently, as if it’s something he can quickly rectify, as if it hasn’t been a painful point of contention in their relationship for a year. “It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about what I want to do.”

“What is it you want to do then? Name one thing you’ve seriously considered,” she says.

“How about being a stay-at-home dad?”

Strangely enough, it’s a career path that would suit him well. She pictures a freckled child with wild red hair, nestled on his wide shoulders. She knows he’d be an amazing father, that Sylvia and Henry would be the most amazing in-laws and grandparents, but she knows she’d resent him for being the one to stay home and raise their child. She hates that her thinking goes there, but she imagines someday retiring to Loon Song Grange, their grandchildren coming to visit. It dangles like something within reach, lurking in the periphery of possibility, the kick in the pants they need to jolt them from stagnation to action. What she can’t fathom is the burden of caring for another human being right now. She can hardly take care of herself. When she doesn't answer, he slips the box back into his pocket and she wonders if he was wholly expecting her to say no.

“I think you’d be a great dad. But I’m not even sure I want kids anymore. And getting married isn’t going to fix things.” He stands and holds out his hand to help her up. They walk in silence back to the car.

Back at the house, the buckets of paint and primer have been put away, and the brushes soak in a canning jar filled with bright red water. Henry and Sylvia are hanging the curtains in the side porch. They both look up expectantly at their arrival and when neither of them says anything, Leigh sees the disappointment on both of their faces. She feels the slightest bit of betrayal; Sylvia should’ve given her a heads up. When Adam trudges into the house, Sylvia follows him inside.

“Are you done painting,” Leigh asks Henry, acting as if nothing has happened when she knows that won’t work. Somehow things seem different now, as if she’s become a trespasser on her own homestead. Until now, she hasn’t felt like crying, but when Henry opens his arms to offer a hug, she can’t hold it together.

“It’s all ruined now,” she says, crying into his shoulder. Henry shushes her.

“She’ll always love you like a daughter, no matter what.” When she’s done crying, Henry gives her a handkerchief. She wanders to the chicken coop, checks for eggs, then wanders up the long driveway to check the mail. At the mailbox, she sends a text to Nick telling him she’d be happy to go to the movie as his friend.

At the house, everyone is helping put the finishing touches on the side porch. Sylvia gives her a big smile.

“The last coat isn't completely dry, but I had to see how everything looks.” The small wooden bench and a wrought-iron plant stand have been moved back, and framed pictures rehung on the bright red walls. The thick upholstery fabric completely blocks any incoming light.

“How does it look from the outside?” Leigh opens the screen door and steps onto the patio. It's then that she sees the bird, a female thrush, brown and drab and sitting dormant on the gray stone, and the silver fox slinking towards it. “No!” Leigh raises her hands above her head and intercepts its path; the fox turns and runs. 

For a moment, she thinks the thrush might be okay, but as Adam approaches it, it doesn't fly off. It’s breathing rapidly and its feathers are unkempt, signs it's in distress. Adam bends down and picks it up carefully; she makes no effort to escape. He sits on the bottom step of the stoop, cradling the thrush in the large cage of his hands. “She's only stunned,” he says, trying to reassure her.

Leigh notices how the late afternoon sunlight reflects off the windows of the porch, making it impossible to see anything inside. Another project comes to mind, the dismantling of the side porch. She'll start with the stairs, pry them off one by one, and then remove each row of siding until the windows, lacking any support, fall forward and shatter. 

She sits next to Adam, and he carefully hands her the bird. Its nervous feet curl around the dry twigs of her fingers. Beneath the downy feathers she can feel its rapid heartbeat, its uncertainty about whether it has found a friend or a foe. They sit there for the longest time, waiting for her to gather enough energy to fly away.