“It’s four bedroom, two bath. Fully renovated kitchen, newly finished floors, two acres of land. I don’t know if I can even wrap my mind around two acres after Manhattan. It’s even got a little gardening shed and some raised planter beds ready to go. A total steal.”

Lillian lifted the camera to her eye and pointed the lens out the passenger side window. Her body jostled as the tires transitioned onto loose gravel; the scene through the viewfinder shuddered and bounced. She said, “If we buy it, we’ll need to think about paving this.”

“There are some fixes we could think about, but on the whole, it’s in great shape.”

Lillian relegated the camera to her lap and squinted at the three-story Victorian ahead. It was a dignified old house, austere and white, with a gabled roof and generous windows and a wrap-around porch complete with porch swing. The yard had been recently manicured, leaving the springy grass flat and trim. One lone tree stood amongst that smooth perfection, planted before a curved bay window. A beautiful property.

Lillian moved her gaze to Alec. He looked fit for work in spite of the weekend—suited, tie tight, dark sunglasses perched on his nose. She said, “Do we still need so many bedrooms?”

“You’ve gotta stop thinking like an urbanite, Lil. Have a little imagination. Master bedroom, guest room, my office, your studio. Four. Perfect.”

She considered, then admitted, “It would be nice to have a studio at home.”

“There you go.”

Alec pulled the car behind the realtor’s awaiting hatchback. Lillian lifted the camera again to peer up at the towering Victorian, the windows like eyes that peered back, almost as though the house was deciding whether it liked her as much as she was deciding if she liked it. She took a snap, savoring the click of the shutter. 

Alec shoved his door open and stepped into the sunlight, beaming like an optimistic prospector. “Come on. I want you to see the inside.”

She looped the camera strap around her neck and followed. It was unseasonably warm for fall in upstate New York, the air not yet heavy with the perfume of bonfire and dying leaves and apple cider doughnuts. The ample oak trees on the property’s periphery still clung to their chlorophyll with only a few enterprising leaves starting to transition into yellow. The front yard’s solitary tree had no leaves at all, green or yellow or otherwise, as though it had preemptively decided that the season should be winter.

Alec trotted up the porch stairs, saying, “It’s a five minute drive to the train station, so my commute would be pretty reasonable. I might have to spend a night in the city here and there, but on the whole, it shouldn’t be a problem to be back by dinner.”

Lillian stepped beneath the branches of the leafless tree, her fingers reaching out to graze the trunk. It was a rather ugly thing, squat and contorted and sickly gray, standing in stark contrast to the Victorian’s regality. In fact, she’d never seen a tree so artfully gnarled, the branches twisted together like the arms and legs of a person collapsed in agony. Thin, barren branches extended towards the clouds like wooden fingers praying for the sun’s beam. She examined it experimentally through the viewfinder; some things were more beautiful on camera. Then she dropped it. Even still it looked painfully sad. Her heart ached with a pitiful sort of love.

Alec leaned over the porch, hands gripping the railing. “The tree can go, of course. It would be nice to have an unobstructed view.”

Lillian glanced up, putting on a smile. “I like it, actually.”

“Do you? I’m not sure it’s…healthy. Could have tree blight. Or whatever it was they were talking about on the news.”

“I don’t think it has blight. It just seems…unattended.”

“Well, we could have it assessed.” Then he drummed his hands excitedly on the railing and said, “Ready to go in?”

She nodded absently, her fingers running along the scar-like ridges of a branch. “If we move in,” she said, “it stays.”

#

The cashier peered at the mountain atop her counter and said, “Doing a little gardening?”

“Sort of,” Lillian said.

The cashier—Wen, judging by the name-tag—lifted her scanning gun to attack the first bag of fertilizer. “Kinda late in the season. A lot late, actually. You got a greenhouse?”

“I have a shed,” Lillian offered.

Wen flickered dubious eyes in Lillian’s direction. Beyond the storefront window, the village’s modest downtown did not bustle, per say—not in the way that New York City bustled—but instead gently buzzed. Young families strolled with cups of hot cocoa from the bakery. Pre-teens tormented the sidewalks on their bicycles. An elderly volunteer plastered up signs for the annual Harvest Festival, thirty-two years running.

Wen said, “What are you thinking to plant? Might be able to tell you just how off-season you are.”

“It’s a rescue operation, actually,” Lillian said. “There’s this old tree in my front yard. My husband thinks it’s beyond saving, but I want to give it a little care. See what happens.”

“Hm. Admittedly, I’m not much of an arborist. You might come back when Frank’s around. Weekends, mostly. He got real close to a landscape architecture degree. Might have some tips.”

“I’ll do that. Actually, while I have you…” Lillian dug into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She swiped to a snapshot taken of the yard on the day of closing—the day that both the Victorian and the tree were officially hers. “You don’t happen to recognize the species, do you? I looked around online a little, but nothing seemed to match.”

Wen took a cursory look before her eyes brightened with recognition. “Oh! You’re the folks who bought 45.”

“We are.”

“Glad the place finally sold. Beautiful house. Sat empty for way too long.”

Lillian tucked her phone away, saying, “It isn’t a murder house or anything, is it?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Perfectly ordinary place. Grew up on that street, actually. Used to ride our bikes back and forth all summer. Mrs. Sutton lived there back then. We used to pretend she was a witch, but she was actually very sweet. Gave out mints at Halloween. Had three kids, all doctors, but they’d moved out by the time I was old enough to remember. Never saw any of them. One time she invited us in for brownies. Talked our ears off about her kids and their jobs and how she’d meant to be a doctor, too, but times had been tight. That sort of thing.”

“Did she…die there?” Lillian paused, then added with some alarm, “Is it a death house?”

“Not sure, actually. Her kids might have put her in assisted living.” Wen flashed a teasing smile. “We can say that’s what happened, if it makes you feel better.”

Lillian playfully wrinkled her nose in response, then dug out a credit card from her purse’s clutter. “I actually grew up with my own Mrs. Sutton. Mr. Vivek. Except we pretended he was a vampire and he gave out popcorn balls instead of mints.”

“Everywhere’s got a resident phantasm,” Wen said brightly. She watched Lillian punch through payment before saying, “Oh—and about the species. I’m not positive, but it doesn’t look local to me.”

Lillian slung her purse over one shoulder and gathered the fertilizer into her arms, clutched like a pair of ungainly toddlers. She tilted her head beyond their mass to say a polite “thanks” before pushing out into the freshness of autumn, the door jingling behind her like a wind chime. 

#

“You’re going to freeze to death out here,” Alec said, hands cupped around a faded tumbler, the Columbia University logo half-chipped into black. A plaid scarf was snug around his freshly-shaved chin, his ears shielded by a black-knit cap, but his shoulders still hunched unhappily against the modest flurries.

“I’ve got layers,” Lillian said, gloved hand balancing an angled brush, the end of which was topped with a glob of brown acrylic paint that the bottle had called nutmeg.

“I don’t want to come home tonight and find out that you’ve turned into an ice sculpture. It would really screw with our summer plans.”

Lillian reluctantly pulled her attention from the canvas to fix Alec with a forced smile. “I’ll add another jacket, if it would make you feel better.”

“And a scarf.” Alec bent over to inspect the lines of her paint, his shoulders dusted with white. A rough outline of the tree’s roots and branches filled the generous canvas from corner to corner. He said, “You’re planning on this being a memorial painting, I hope. You know the thing isn’t going to survive winter.”

“I think it’s looking better, actually.” She pointed towards the trunk with the tip of her brush. “The bark is looking a little more brown. Less gray.”

“Or maybe the snow is making it look that way in contrast.”

“It’s going to have leaves in the summer,” she said. “Just you wait.”

“Well, I admire your optimism,” he said. “I’ve got a work dinner tonight so I’ll be late. Maybe you should try to get out yourself. See some friends.”

“All my friends are in the city,” she said while mixing nutmeg with a spot of white.

“That’s what trains are for. You could give Zuri a call. Or Christopher and Julian. Any of the old gang. I’m sure they miss you.”

Lillian brushed paint along the line of what would be a branch, lifting the edge at the outward sweep to create a delicate end. She said, “They’re all busy. With work. And kids.”

She sensed more than saw Alec’s sudden tension. She lifted her eyes to read the taut line of his jaw, the wince in his eyes. Then, rather crisply, he said, “Well, I’m sure they’d make time.”

“I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to worry about me.”

His posture still betrayed his unease, but he said, “Yeah. Alright. Anyway. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.”

She nodded and returned her eyes to the canvas. Behind her, she could hear Alec trod across the yard and mutter curses at the cold permeating his boots. The car door creaked open and slammed shut before both Alec and his SUV puttered away, leaving their two acres in the hush of blanketed snow.

Lillian lifted her brush, then paused. Something at the tip of a branch caught her eye. She stood and crunched through frozen grass to touch the tiny, unseasonable bud with gloved fingers. She returned to her easel with a smile on her lips, murmuring, “Oh, yes. Definitely looking better.”

#

“So,” Zuri said. “When are you moving back to the city? You must be losing your mind by now in the suburbs.”

Lillian blinked away from the strokes of her centerpiece painting, bold against the smooth white of the gallery walls. A spring rain splattered against the windows but still the attendees dressed to embrace the season: floral dresses, white heels, pastel suits. She watched Zuri take a sip of fluted champagne through red-painted lips and said, “Actually, it’s not so bad. Quiet. Plenty of space. The people in town are friendly.”

“Sounds boring.”

“I have my own studio space at home,” Lillian said, warmly taunting. “No more schlepping on the subway.”

“But you used to love schlepping on the subway. And I miss having you around. Our dinners gave me the perfect excuse to stick Liam with the kids.”

“I’ll visit more. And you could come see me, you know.”

“Yeah,” Zuri sighed. “I know. It’s a bit tricky with bedtimes and stuff, but—no, you’re right. You’re right, and I will. And I’m sorry that I haven’t yet.”

Lillian forced a shrug and took a sip from her own flute. “It’s okay. I get it.”

A pair of middle-aged women in matching Louboutins paused before Lillian’s collection, arm linked in arm, heads bobbing in thoughtful consideration. Artfully painted nails traced the lines of the twisted branches on Lillian’s central canvas, captured under a layer of powdered snow. Lillian and Zuri watched in palpable silence, waiting for a display of significant interest, until the two women wandered away, their commentary too whispered to be overheard.

With a tone of command, Zuri said, “Something will sell. I feel it.”

Lillian offered her a tight, grateful smile and plucked a hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray, if only to have something to do.

Zuri said, “I’m surprised to see you went with Marcescence, though. Whatever happened to Veiled Curiosity?”

Lillian took a rough swallow of crostini. “You don’t like it?”

“No, no, I do. It’s very…emotional. The bold colors, the aggressive lines. I feel it. But it’s a lot less abstract than what I’m used to seeing from you. I’ve always thought of you as a Fauvist.”

Slowly, Lillian said, “I just thought the tree was perfect the way it was. Like what was on the inside was already on the outside.”

“Ooh. You should write that on the label,” Zuri said with a snap of her fingers. “What about the title? What’s it mean, anyway? Kind of sounds like a pricey perfume.”

“It’s what they call it when the leaves shrivel up in winter but don’t drop,” Lillian said. “They hold on, even though they’ve changed.”

Zuri released a thoughtful hum.

With a sigh, Lillian said, “Alec had the same feedback, though. He thought A Place to Sleep would get more attention.”

“Speaking of Alec, where is he?” Zuri glanced over her shoulder, as though mere mention would conjure him into being. “Doesn’t he work around here?”

“Late client dinner.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yes, Zuri,” Lillian said in a yes, mother kind of tone. “Everything’s fine.”

“You’ve barely mentioned him all night. Moving can be tough on couples—trust me, I know. Nearly kicked Liam out after we bought the apartment, and that was only six blocks. Plus, after everything you went through last year…” Zuri let her voice trail.

“If something was wrong, I would tell you. I promise.” Lillian shifted her eyes back to her painting as though it were a refuge, her attention lingering on the spot where she’d blobbed on the tiniest bud. She said, “Alec hates this tree, though. He thinks it has blight—whatever that is—but I think he’s wrong. I’ve been fertilizing it and I put it on a watering schedule and I’m sure the color is coming back.”

“You’ve been fertilizing? You, who didn’t last a single night of camping before running back to Manhattan?”

“There were ticks.”

Zuri shook her head, mystified. “I guess the suburbs really do change you.”

Lillian was slotting her key into the door of the old Victorian five hours later. Alec’s black SUV was already in the driveway; he’d beaten her home, but by how much, she couldn’t say. The house was dark when she entered, frozen in time. Dishes in the sink, remote control wedged between couch cushions, whiskey glass on the ottoman. She slipped off her shoes and padded up the stairs. Alec was a lump beneath the covers, breathing like a long-slumbering giant, visible by moonlight streaming through parted curtains. She stepped to the window to peer at the lawn below. At night, the tree’s winding branches always looked rather human-like to her: curled arms and legs and torso, fingers extended in a skyward plea. Sometimes, when the winds were especially brisk, she could almost hear it sighing.

Then she changed, slid beneath the comforter, and stared at the curve of Alec’s back. She could reach out, if she wanted to. Curl against the warmth of him; press her head against his shoulders like she used to. But he seemed very distant somehow—like she’d sooner touch the stars than find him.

She tossed, and he turned towards her with a sleepy moan. He murmured, “How’d it go?”

“It went okay.”

“Any luck?”

“No,” she said. “Not tonight. But that’s okay. I just wanted people to see it.”

A stretch of silence followed, long enough that she thought he’d perhaps drifted back to sleep. Then: “Did you go with A Place to Sleep?”

“No. My tree painting.”

Alec snorted, eyes still closed. “You’re obsessed.”

“I’m not.”

“Spending a fortune on fertilizer.”

“I want it to get better,” she said. “And I like having something to care for.”

There was another pause. A silence that felt thicker, somehow. Then he sighed and said, “We could get a dog.”

“I don’t need a dog.”

Alec’s eyes opened, shining in the moonlight. “Because you want a kid.”

She breathed slowly, eyes on the ceiling, wondering if she could realistically feign having fallen asleep.

Alec rubbed his face. Sat up. Wrapped his arms around comforter-covered knees. He said, “I know that’s what we planned, but after last year…I don’t want to see you go through that again.”

“I know you don’t.”

“And I like the way things are. You and me. This town. Our careers. We’re back in a good place, you know? Why risk it?”

“Maybe it was just bad luck,” she said. “Maybe it would be different the next time.”

“Or maybe it would be the same and we’d be right back at rock bottom.”

“If it wasn’t something you were willing to try, then why did we buy this house? Why did you insist on so much space? Why did we move at all?”

“Because I got tired of the city, Lillian—I said that countless times. And if you read something more into it, then that’s not my fault.”

Lillian curled into her pillow, blinking into the darkness with nothing, really, to say.

“It’s late,” Alec said. “You should get some sleep.”

She nodded, silent.

He leaned over to kiss her forehead and said, “We’ll be fine. We’ll be happy. You’ll be happy—if you let yourself be. Trust me.”

#

“So this is what having a home studio is like,” Zuri said, spinning like a ballerina in a music box. “It doesn’t make up for the fact that everything here closes at dusk, but I get the appeal.”

“And there’s storage space in the attic,” Lillian said as she leaned against the doorway. At night, the room could feel rather haunted—white protective cloth covering the floors, empty canvases stacked by the windows, half-finished pieces looming like ghosts along the interior. But in the afternoon, with soft summer sunlight beaming through the glass, it felt like a cathedral, dreamy and reverent. 

“Now you’re just taunting me,” Zuri said. She planted her arms akimbo while she inspected a row of works-in-progress, then pointed towards a notably gnarled shape that lurked in the background of each. “Is this becoming some kind of signature?”

“Not intentionally.” Lillian tilted her head towards the Victorian’s interior, saying, “How about some lemonade on the porch? You should take advantage of the clean air while you can.”

“I resent the implication,” Zuri said, though she followed Lillian down the stairs regardless. “My lungs are optimized for city smog.”

Lillian wandered into the kitchen and poured two glasses from a store-bought bottle, the expiration date of which she’d rather not check. The stove was clean. The counters, too. Ample takeout boxes and freezer packages were shoved in the garbage. She hoped that Zuri wouldn’t notice.

Then they emerged into the August heat, condensation slick on the glasses. Two blue rocking chairs, still faintly scented with the manufacturer’s cheap paint, awaited alongside the porch swing that had been there since Mrs. Sutton’s time. The swing seemed like an intimate thing—something for young lovers or elderly couples who still held hands—so they settled in the chairs and looked upon Lillian’s silver sedan as it sat alone in the horseshoe driveway.

Zuri said, “Lil—where’s Alec?”

“In the city. At the office. I told you I’d be alone today.”

“It’s a Saturday.”

“There’s some big acquisition,” Lillian said, taking a sip. “Overtime. You know. Work gets busy.”

Zuri took a long breath, eyes grazing cotton-ball clouds. She said, “Can I be honest with you?”

Lillian wanted to say no, but instead said, “Of course.”

“I’m a little worried. I say this as someone who loves you. Alec’s not around. You look exhausted. You didn’t go to Christopher’s birthday dinner. And you’re gardening, for Christ’s sake. If that’s not a sign of depression, I don’t know what is.”

“I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. I’m just…not sleeping well.”

“Is this, like, an illness thing, and Alec has cut and run?”

Lillian forced a dismissive laugh. “I’m not sick. And I’m not depressed. Alec and I, we’re just…” She paused, squinting at the sun through the wooden fingers of her tree, now happily populated with leaves in the most brilliant shade of green. “I don’t know. We’re just not where we used to be.”

“Marriage can be hard,” Zuri offered.

“Yeah.” A pause hung between them, deep enough that Lillian started to wonder if she and Zuri were where they used to be, or if they, too, had become misaligned. Friendship could be hard, too. Then she said, “Hey. The tree. It doesn’t look like it’s dying to you, does it?”

Zuri looked momentarily startled, then twisted towards it for a scan. “No,” she said, as though surprised by this finding. “No, it really doesn’t.”

#

“I’m heading out,” Alec said.

Lillian’s arms were aloft, pruning loppers heavy in her hands. She dropped the tool to her side, wiped the sweat from her brow, and said, “Okay.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow sometime.”

“Sure.” Lillian lifted the loppers again to align the blades with a branch that hadn’t recovered along with the rest. She felt wonderfully small beneath the canopy of flourishing leaves—like the tree was the protector now, strong and verdant, and she was the aging parent, her duties of care having been fulfilled.

Alec said, “Do you care where I’m going?”

Lillian dropped her arms again and turned. Alec was nicely dressed. He was always nicely dressed. She said, “I assume you’re going into the city.”

“Do you care why?”

She was about to say I assume you’re going to work—even though she wasn’t quite sure that this was true. But it didn’t matter either way, because he was right. She didn’t really care.

Alec folded his arms and said, “Do you care about anything, Lillian?”

“I care about things.”

Alec gestured towards the blossoming tree. “Do you care about anything other than your ridiculous passion project?”

She felt her face darken. A spark of indignation burst through the apathy. “My care brought it back to health. That’s not nothing.”

Alec rubbed at his face, brow crumpling. “I just…I don’t know what’s going on with you. I don’t know what’s going on with us. Just tell me what you want to do. Counseling? Therapy? Divorce? I have no idea what to do anymore.”

She dropped her eyes to her scuffed work boots and said, “I don’t know either.”

“Did you at least make an appointment to talk about your exhaustion?”

She looked back up, saying nothing.

Alec said, “I don’t know how you can expect me to care for you if you won’t even try to care for yourself.”

“I don’t need you to care for me. I’m fine.”

Alec sighed, shook his head, and turned away, his car beeping cheerfully as it unlocked. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Sometime.”

Liliana stayed stationary as she watched the car rumble away. She should feel something, she knew—angry, hurt, regretful—but those emotions were distant, as though belonging to somebody else. The Victorian, her car, Alec—those things felt strangely foreign, too. Only the earth felt close; the sun; the breeze. So close, so important, that she almost felt like she could drink of their offerings like the roots of her tree did. The desire to touch soil rose in her chest, sharp and overwhelming. She fought off the irrational urge and started towards the gardening shed but the impulse spiked to the point of a command, overpowering enough to release the loppers from her grasp. She allowed herself to sink to her knees and indulge in the feel of grass and dirt. The ground felt stable, the sun strengthening, the wind playful—as though this was a place where she, too, could grow.

Then she wrapped her arms around her legs and leaned her forehead against her knees. She stayed there, statuesque, as an autumn sprinkle dotted her jeans and button-up; as her knots and gnarls relaxed and untangled; as her own branches reworked and reshaped. With the pleasure of sinking into a soft bed, she closed her eyes. And there, curled on the lawn, she breathed, sank, and then, finally, let herself root.

#

“So, it’s got four bedrooms—”

“Mama!”

“Two baths—”

“Mama!”

“Way more land than—”

“Mama!”

Gretchen pursed her lips, defeated.

Sunita twisted in the passenger seat, saying, “Yes, peanut?”

The toddler blinked back, brown eyes innocent beneath ambulant curls.

Sunita said, “Did you just want Mama to pay attention to you, Meera?”

The toddler nodded solemnly.

Sunita looked at Gretchen and said, “Try again.”

Gretchen smirked in the driver’s seat. “I was trying to say—way more land than we’d know what to do with. And I was able to talk us into a six month lease with the option to extend so if you hate it, we don’t have to stay.”

“I’m sure it’ll be great. If you liked it, it must be perfect.”

“Mami said dog!” the toddler burst.

Gretchen tossed Sunita an abashed look. “I might have said something about a dog.”

Sunita twisted around again to wiggle Meera’s toes, her shoes and socks disappeared through mysterious toddler magic. “You want a dog, do you? Are you going to walk it? Feed it? Give it baths?”

Meera giggled in delight.

Sunita turned back, sighing. “Well, I guess I’ll have time for a dog.”

Guilt flashed in Gretchen’s eyes. “You’ll find something. I know you will. And I know it won’t be Chicago, but…maybe bigger is better?”

“Maybe,” Sunita said, trying not to think about her last day at the newsroom—the farewell cake, the goodbye card, the fact that she’d wept on the L afterwards. She attempted to distract herself by peering out the window at the charming downtown, the backdrop of evergreens, the quaint neighborhoods hiding innumerable cul-de-sacs. She tried to love it the way that Gretchen did. She wanted to love it.

Then Gretchen said, “Aha! Number 45! Meera, look out!”

It was a relief to see that the realtor’s photos had offered an accurate portrayal. It was, indeed, a stunning old house—the kind she could imagine belonging to a sea captain of antiquity, weather-beaten face peering out through a gable. One of the trees out front was an explosion in green with leaves bursting enthusiastically from every branch, the rich brown bark twisted like a sailor’s knot. Its sibling stood on the other side of the porch staircase, though this one had seen better days. The skyward branches were leafless while the hunched trunk had gone gray, bark half-stripped to the phloem. It looked less knotted and more tangled—something haphazard rather than intentional.

Gretchen said, “Let’s take a look!” She threw the car into park, stepped out, and unbuckled Meera from her carseat. The toddler darted into the yard like a joyful Labrador, giggling and spinning and diving her fingers into the dirt. Sunita took a more leisurely exit, breathing in the suburban air and letting her eyes trail along the old Victorian’s white exterior as it stood in beautiful contrast against the healthy tree’s vivid green.

She could probably love it. She had to love it.

Then her attention fell upon the withered tree. She stepped beneath the jagged branches, inspecting its twists with a tilted head and wondering why the other had fared so much better. More direct sunlight on that side? Better water table? Was water table even a thing?

Gretchen trudged up the porch stairs with Meera in her arms. She called back, “I can ask the landlord to have that one inspected. She’d probably pay to have it removed if it’s dying.”

“I don’t think it’s dying,” Sunita said. “I think it just needs whatever the other one is getting.”

“Well, an inspector could probably tell us.”

Sunita nodded absently, fingers grazing the wavering trunk. Something about the shape felt human-like to her—like a person curled in repose, arms wrapped around knees, hands towards the sky. Her heart bloomed with a pitiful sort of love.

Sunita released her touch and followed Gretchen inside.

“If we move in,” she said, “it stays.”