Past the park, the bicycles thin out and I can drive a bit faster, fifteen miles per hour now. At Laurel Street, I turn right, forcing myself to ignore the Boones’ huge cottage dominating the corner, hoping they aren’t here for the weekend. Once on Laurel, our cottage is on my left, bright white against the lush green grass of our yard. I turn into our driveway and take a breath as I bring the car to a stop. Before I even turn off the ignition, Mia is out of the car without saying a word. I put the car in Park and reach for the to-go box I placed on the floor in the back behind me. It’s holding the last slice of pizza from lunch and I’m tempted to gobble it down right now. But I should follow Mia. She’s headed to check on her strawberry crop no doubt.
As I make my way to the backyard, following her, I’m startled. There’s a man standing next to Mia, looking down at the garden. The man is fit, with broad shoulders and dark brown hair. It’s Buck, I realize quickly. I would know him anywhere. They stand so close their shoulders are almost touching. Buck and Mia. How long has he been standing back here, awaiting Mia’s arrival? Is she the highlight of his day, his week?
“Hey, Buck,” I say, my voice ricocheting against the back fence, sounding loud and strong. I’m protecting what’s mine, the voice says.
“Paul,” Buck says, turning around and extending his hand. His chiseled face is shaved and wrinkle-free. I notice a dimple on his right cheek that I hadn’t seen before. How cute. I shake his hand firmly, hoping it hurts.
“They’ve taken root, Paul. Buck has done me such a favor, caring for them like he has,” Mia says. Her voice drips with admiration and affection, the opposite tone from the tone I’d experienced most of today. She puts her hand on Buck’s forearm and adds, “I better go help Paul unload the car. Come over for happy hour tonight?”
What? I’m stunned. This is our weekend together. What is she doing inviting Buck over for drinks without even asking me first? “Honey, we have plans,” I say. “Sorry, Buck. It’s our little getaway weekend. I’m sure you understand.”
“No problem,” Buck says, blinking but holding my gaze.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul. Buck has been an invaluable help with the strawberries. Let’s be neighborly, shall we? Come by at six,” she says before walking past me back in the direction of our car. I turn and watch her, unable to face Buck. I’ve been humiliated but there is nothing more I want to say to this man right now. I walk away, heading back to the car, leaving Buck alone in our backyard. I imagine him standing there smugly, our neighbor the garden gnome, watching me follow my wife like a trained dog. Well, this dog isn’t well trained, and he’s a guard dog. This will not be the last on this topic.
I reach the Ford Flex as Mia is unloading the trunk, carrying the laundry basket from our house. I have no idea what she has filled it with but most likely it’s stuff we don’t need up here, and probably didn’t need back in Grandville either. Creature comforts are coming out of our ears. We’re so blessed.
“Mia, can we talk?” I say, standing between my wife and the house.
“Can you help carry things inside first? I’d like to get settled,” she says, stepping around me. I notice she doesn’t have the key to the cottage, but she turns the handle of the front door and walks inside. Why was the cottage unlocked? I wonder.
“Mia, wait,” I say, hurrying to the door. “The door wasn’t locked. I need to make sure no one has broken in.”
“Paul, the cleaning crew came today. I told them to leave it unlocked,” she says, pushing past me to carry her white plastic basket to the family room couch. “Can you go get a load?”
How different this scene is than what I’d fantasized. There will be no eager lovemaking to kick off our preseason excursion, not with the stupid neighbor lurking in plain sight in the backyard.
“Sure,” I say, walking back to the front door. The cottage is small, maybe 2,000 square feet, but it’s lovely. Hardwood floors make the space warm and inviting. The first floor boasts a screened-in porch, a comfortable kitchen and dining room, and a small family room. Upstairs, there are three small bedrooms. It was built in 1927 or so, after the first big building blitz of summer cabins right next to the lake. The second wave of building was more refined if you ask me. The second block back from the lake provides each home with more land. More land means bigger homes. I love the big oak tree in the front yard and I love that we have plenty of green grass all around the cottage. Quickly, I peek into the backyard and notice that Buck is gone. Certainly, he won’t go against my wishes and come over for drinks. This is our special day and three is a crowd.
During my second and final trip out to the car, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out and check the number. I smile, though I know I can’t talk now. I’m spending a quality weekend with my wife. And quite obviously, this time together was needed. I wonder what other surprises she has for me besides her newfound desire to work and her new confidence in directly contradicting my wishes in front of strangers.
I close the trunk and roll our suitcases up the front walk. It’s simple here, peaceful, tucked away from the hustle of the main street, the stresses of life back home. The wind ruffles the new green leaves on the oak tree and I know everything will calm down. We just need to unpack, and get our rhythm back. It’s going to be the best afternoon.
Inside I pull the suitcases to the bottom of the stairs. I hear Mia up in our bedroom. The walls and floors are thin, a product of the time and the belief that no insulation was needed for summer cottages, I suppose. I pick up Mia’s suitcase and carry it up the stairs, placing it on the landing before I head back down to retrieve mine.
By the time I climb upstairs again, Mia has wheeled her suitcase into our bedroom—an oasis of white furnishings with light blue walls—and is diligently unpacking as I join her in the room. There is enough space for our king-size bed, a small table on each side. That’s it. One dresser at the end of the bed is split down the middle, with each of us getting our half of each drawer. The small closet holds eight hanging items, tops. The entire room with its white furniture and bedding and curtains and cozy size typically feels very soothing. At the moment, it seems crowded. The air pulses as it did in the car. Ping.
I glance at Mia. My wife’s face seems to have softened, the frown lines not so deep at the sides of her mouth. Maybe she is at peace with our decision, the end of the discussion. I could see that, read that feeling on her face. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking. I unzip my suitcase and unpack in silence. Instead of pursuing a conversation again, I have decided to let her be the first to speak, let her explain herself.