Ginny was making dinner for Mike’s friends, Pogo and Ann. They’d never been to the new house before. They were practically the last ones to be invited, even though Ginny was eager to show it off. Really it was an old house, and small, or as the realtor said, cozy. A red brick colonial with black shutters and a black front door that had three square windows cut out of the top. At a certain time of day, long rectangles of light would shine through those windows and splash onto the oak floor in the entryway. Ginny would stop and stare at the floor, as if she expected to see something she’d thought was lost.
She had noticed how bright the house was right away. That, and the plasterwork around the fireplace in the little parlor, made her want to live there. A bright house with a warm fire in the first room you came to, big American boxwoods outside; tricycles and soccer balls on the front lawn, strollers parked by the screen door: This was the right kind of place for them. This was clean and wholesome and normal and fine.