The main floor sprawled around a central double-opening fieldstone fireplace. Sunlight poured into both the living room and kitchen from their shared southern exposure; hidden in the rear of the house were the pantry, the bath, the laundry and Zach’s study. Gently curving walls on the main floor climbed to a vaulted ceiling above, where huge semicircular windows encouraged sunlight to pour into the bedrooms. An open stairway led upward.

There was a mood of space and openness to the entire house. Plants in carved crockery brought the outside in; two leaf-green couches formed a conversation cluster; an old deacon’s bench leaned against the curved wall of the living room. The bookcases were generous; Zach and Bett were both insatiable readers, at least in the winter. Generally, there was a splash of fresh flowers somewhere.

The place wasn’t overcrowded with furniture. Neither wanted to burden their space with excess furnishings, even if they’d had the money to do so. Truthfully, the last thing they’d needed was the expense of a new house, but Uncle John’s derelict old farmhouse had forced the decision. Not only had that ancient structure been crumbling from the foundations, but the furnace worked only from June until August; lights gratuitously went on in the middle of the night; and the plumbing only made a tired effort. It would have taken more money to fix up Uncle John’s house than to build their own. This one, at least, hadn’t been outrageously costly, both because they’d done most of the work themselves and because Zach was a maniac about energy conservation.

And to Bett, their place was distinctly theirs. In summer, they could collapse into a chair in filthy jeans, drinking iced tea while waiting for the next crisis. In winter, they could dress up on a special evening and sip honey wine in front of the fire and feel very, very luxurious. The house just fit them. And where else could a married couple say they’d made love on a gently sloping, grass-cushioned roof?