Jackson refrained from reading the next sentences aloud. They read: ‘Unfortunately, the markets in California and other states remain undersupplied because of our continued inability to provide ethanol in sufficient quantity and, without the government subsidy program, at a profitable cost. However, research on this problem is ongoing. Currently, without government assistance, real costs of producing ethanol – wages, refinery costs, tractor fuel to plant and harvest the corn – average about one dollar per gallon, or roughly twice as much as gasoline. Fortunately, governmental tax credits keep us competitive, but clearly, this is an area that needs improvement.’
But it was as though these lines had never been written. Jackson continued smoothly, his voice ringing with confidence.
‘Ethanol profits next year will be in the range of a hundred million dollars, and if we can increase our production to meet the needs of the market, in the not-too-distant future, we can predict profits that may well reach half a billion dollars per year!’
Ellis Jackson waited as applause rocked the room. Finally, grinning broadly, he held up his hands and the noise subsided. The CEO leaned into the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he crowed triumphantly, ‘it’s been one hell of a year!’
On the following Saturday, 17 April, the Hardy kids were spending one last day at their grandparents’ house.
Now, an hour before dusk, Dismas and Frannie were working mostly in silence, finishing up the last of the unpacking in their newly designed kitchen. Skylights, white cabinets, and fifty additional square feet they’d borrowed from the rooms at the back of the house gave the space an airy, open feel.
They had finally come around to accepting the Chinese position that disaster and opportunity derive from the same symbol. And so, retaining the original home’s footprint, they’d gone up. Over the first floor, they’d added a new master bedroom and bath. This freed up enough space to convert their old bedroom into a family room. This meant no more television in the living room, a long-awaited goal – now rational and uninterrupted conversation might have a chance to transpire there.
Hardy had installed a new, enlarged fish tank – sixty gallons – into the wall between the kitchen and the family room behind it, so that it could be enjoyed from either side. He’d bolted an old marlin fishhook into the wall above the new stove and on it – in easy reach – hung his cast-iron pan, which glistened black with reseasoning and a fresh rub with olive oil.
They’d stored as much as they could in the back rooms during the construction and over the past three days had done most of the heavy moving. Now, the new furniture graced the living and dining rooms. Three new ones and the one surviving Venetian glass elephant caravaned again on the mantel. The new bed upstairs sported a wedding-ring quilt they’d discovered together in an antiques shop on a family trip to Mendocino one weekend.
Tapped out, even with the insurance money, they were broke as newlyweds after the honeymoon.
Hardy finished stacking a load of dishes into one of the cupboards and turned around, surprised to find himself suddenly alone. He pushed open the door to the dining room and walked through it, passing the sturdy and graceful Shaker table and chairs. A dozen coats of lemon oil still hadn’t completely eradicated the smell of carbon from the old sideboard, but the old piece was a comforting presence, some connection to what had been before.
The sun was low and its light streamed through the shutters in the bay windows, illuminating the living room. Frannie was sitting forward on the ottoman in front of what Hardy thought might become his reading chair, although it was still far from broken in, too new to tell.
‘You OK?’
She smiled politely, quickly. ‘Just taking a break.’
Standing in the opening between the two rooms, he studied her face for a minute, then pulled a chair from behind him and sat so that he was facing her.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.
Feet planted, elbows on his knees, Hardy took it in – the shining hardwood floors, the Navajo rug, the blond leather couch, a handful of tasteful new accessories, some art. With the addition over them, they’d been able to raise the ceiling to over nine feet. Frannie was right – it was a little eclectic, vaguely Santa Fe, but it all fit together well.
‘We do good work.’
His phrasing struck her and the ambiguous smile returned, flitted, disappeared.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘We do, you know. Do good work together.’
‘That’s what I just said.’
‘Yes, but the difference is that I mean it.’
He looked levelly at her. ‘I do, too, Frannie.’
She hesitated, then stood up and walked to the shutters, where she stood for another minute before turning back to him. ‘Real life is going to start again here on Monday. Just the four of us.’
‘I know that.’
‘School, kids, all the household errands, your work. I don’t want to get where we were before.’ She gestured around their new home. ‘If I don’t have you, I don’t want any of this – I mean it. I’d give it all away tomorrow if you start to feel now that you have to work every single minute to pay for it, if it’s too great a burden.’
His hands had gotten clenched. ‘It wasn’t the work.’ He blew out through his cheeks. ‘The work was escape.’
‘From what?’ The next he barely heard. ‘From me?’
He lifted his shoulders, then let them down heavily. ‘I don’t know. It was all of a piece. I think I forgot we were doing this together.’
This struck a chord and she broke a small laugh. ‘Well, at least we did that together. But, you know, I never did lie to you. I never have.’
‘I know that.’
‘Do you, really? Because it’s true.’
He considered it, then let out a long breath. ‘I never really believed it, Frannie. It was just difficult to understand.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry for that.’ She took a tentative step toward him. ‘So maybe we can start over? New house, new attitude.’
‘I’ve been trying.’
She came the rest of the way to him. ‘I know. I have, too. These past few months with Ed and Erin – they’ve been good. But it wasn’t the routine like the four of us at home. And I think the routine is what gets to you.’
Hardy eventually answered her. ‘You think right.’
‘So it’s going to start again.’
He tried to make light of it. ‘Not till Monday.’
But she wasn’t giving it up. ‘So what are we going to do?’
Another sigh. ‘How about if you need to confide in somebody, you come to me?’
‘I could try that. If you’d listen.’
‘That sounds fair.’ He met her eyes. ‘But how about, also, a little balance between kid things and adult things? I’m not asking for the moon here – say seventy thirty, maybe a date every couple of weeks?’
Frannie had to acknowledge his point. ‘I know. It got a little too much. That was me.’ She straightened him up and sat on his lap. ‘But I’m still going to have friends, and some of them are possibly going to be men.’
Now Hardy almost smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to stop you. Friends are good. It’s possible I’ll have a few myself, females I mean. Though it’s not as likely as you and men.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Some women like that old, rugged look.’
‘I don’t think it would be a looks thing. And what do you mean, old?’
‘Well, not real old, more like mature, stately.’
‘Stately. I like that.’ He kissed her, well and good. When it stopped fifteen seconds later, he pecked her again. ‘Stately that,’ he said.