Roby brought her to live in a country cottage he inherited from his grandmother. The small house was painted a pale yellow and stood alone on two acres several miles from the nearest town. Katherine imagined hanging the laundry out to dry on a line she'd run from the house to a tree in the front yard. Roby had told her about the tree. He promised to hang a tire swing for her so she could hover a while.
When Katherine first laid her eyes on the house, she thought it was romantic and immediately fell in love with the light that came through the kitchen window. "We need a table right there," she said and pointed to the spot that would become Roby's writing place. At the time, though, Katherine imagined coffee dates with her handsome husband. She imagined passing him the newspaper and buttering toast at the table. She hoped he'd read to her while she sat and embroidered pillow cases - a skill she learned from her own grandmother who wasn't fortunate enough to see her only granddaughter grow up and marry a man who knew how to hang a swing and tend a beard.
She leaned against the kitchen sink and looked out the window she'd loved the first time she saw it. She could see the tree clearly. No clothesline was ever connected. She dried laundry on racks in the basement. No swing was ever hung. She didn't hover, or drift, or give her mind any time to roam on its own. She quit daydreaming. She started baking.
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