After lunch, Carrie helped carry the potted seedlings to the shade structure where they'd harden off before market day. Then Frank waved her over to the tomato rows. The sun was higher now, the air hazy with June heat, but she didn't mind.
He showed her how to check the plants for signs of stress—yellowing leaves, spots that indicated fungus, fruit that wasn't developing right. He pointed to each problem silently then moved to the next plant. A man of few words, but the lesson was clear.
Carrie thought about all the years she'd pretended. Smiling at Diana across the table at company dinners, making small talk at holiday parties, thanking her for gift baskets she didn't want. Telling herself she was imagining things, that Richard's late nights and weekend texts were just work, that their marriage was fine because she needed it to be fine.
The plants didn't lie. Maybe that was the appeal.
She was carrying a flat of marigolds toward the herb garden when she stopped. Frank and Marge were by the hoop house, not doing anything remarkable—talking, Frank holding one end of a shade cloth while Marge secured the other. But watching them made Carrie's chest ache. The ease of it. Frank anticipating where Marge needed him without being asked. She said something Carrie couldn't hear, and he laughed—low and warm, like they had all the time in the world.
Forty years. That was what this was. Not performance, not obligation. Partnership.
She and Richard had never looked like that. Not even in the beginning, if she was honest. They'd been good at playing the part—the dinner parties, the vacations, the Christmas cards with everyone smiling. But underneath it, she'd always been reaching for something he wasn't offering. She'd thought that was marriage. She'd thought that was how it worked.
Frank steadied the ladder while Marge climbed down, his hand finding the small of her back as she stepped off—automatic, protective, like he'd done it a thousand times. Carrie realized she'd been settling for so much less than this. For two decades, she'd been settling.
Her phone buzzed in her back pocket.
She almost ignored it. But habit made her pull it out—habit, and the dread that had taken up permanent residence in her stomach.
Gayle Brown, the screen read. Her lawyer.
"Carrie, I'm glad I caught you." Gayle's voice was brisk, professional—the tone she used when delivering news Carrie wouldn't want to hear. "Richard's team sent over a revised settlement offer this morning."
"And?"
"They're claiming the business valuation we submitted is inflated. They've hired their own appraiser, and they're coming in at nearly forty percent lower than our numbers."
Carrie walked toward the far end of the farm, away from where Frank and Marge were still working. "That's not possible. I helped build that company. I know what it's worth."
"I know. And we'll fight it. But Carrie—they're also pushing to accelerate the house sale. Richard's attorney is arguing that maintaining two households is creating undue financial burden on his client." A pause. "They want to force a listing by the end of August."
The end of August. Two months.
The house where she'd raised her daughters. The kitchen where Brittany had learned to bake, where Ava had done homework at the island every afternoon for years. The backyard where they'd had birthday parties and barbecues and one disastrous attempt at a vegetable garden that had produced exactly three tomatoes.
"Can they do that?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"They can try. I'm filing a motion to delay, but I want you to be prepared. If the judge sides with them?—"
"I understand."
"We'll talk strategy when you're back. Try to enjoy your vacation."
The line went dead. Carrie stood there, phone in hand, staring at nothing. Five minutes ago the morning had felt like possibility. Now the weight was back, heavier than before.
Behind her, she could hear Marge laughing at something Frank had said. The chickens were making their soft, constant sounds. A breeze moved through the tomato plants, warm and earthy.
She had two months. Maybe less.
When she finally said goodbye—Marge pressing a paper bag of zucchini and early tomatoes into her hands, Frank raising one callused palm in farewell—Carrie's smile felt brittle. They'd invited her back. Told her the job offer stood. But all she could think about was the house, the settlement, the way her life kept narrowing no matter how hard she tried to hold it open.
She drove back toward Sea Isle with the windows down and the radio off, nothing but the sound of tires on pavement and the air rushing past. The gas stations and shopping plazas gave way to beach houses again, the mainland to the causeway, and then the shore rose up ahead of her—narrow and sandy, beautiful and temporary.
The bag of vegetables sat on the passenger seat. Dirt was embedded under her fingernails, ground into the creases of her palms. Evidence of a morning that had felt, briefly, like possibility.
Gayle said she'd fight it. For now, that would have to be enough.
Tom was making a charcuterie board.
