Caleb left the lyrics. “Will you?”
I almost smile. – You know better.
That afternoon I went to the Whitakers’ house. Their new gravel attraction was white and clean, with a cool landscape along the entrance and a door they had not yet connected to close. The house they were building sat high on their side of the property, all glass, dark cladding and sharp angles, like something from a magazine called Modern Rural Living written by people who never had to pull a calf at midnight. I found Brent by the lake, my lake, although I even hated thinking the phrase, talking to two contractors who installed fountain aerators.
The dock frame was new.
That stopped me for a moment.
It spread over the water from the south, tidy and expensive shore, with treated wood stacked nearby. The bets marked a future seating area. Laurel lay further behind with a tablet in his hands, showing something to a landscaper. She looked up when she saw me and didn’t smile.
