The pain in her head descended, pressure like a lead helmet, squeezing, squeezing, crushing her skull. She was in love; she was dying to talk to Madeline and get the mess sorted out, but really, Grace wanted only Benton.

On a trip to the bathroom—the only reason she rose from bed—she stared out the window at her soggy backyard.

A garden was no good in the rain.

Happiness restored. The sun came out. Benton returned with a big smile and a ferocious appetite for Grace. He loved her again. The big day was nearly upon them.

Lawn mowed and trimmed, beds weeded, roses blooming, perennial bed freshly mulched, daylilies deadheaded, pool skimmed, chaises arranged with pillows plumped, grill scrubbed, deck swept, canvas umbrella cleaned, Adirondack chairs wiped down, hammock tightened. Together, Benton and Grace walked every inch of the property, clipping blossoms for an arrangement, smoothing imperfections in the white shell driveway, filling the bird feeders.

“It’s ready,” Benton said. He kissed Grace deeply up against the side of his truck. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Clara Teasdale, the Boston Globe’s home-and-garden editor, and Big George, a Globe staff photographer, arrived in a car driven by Bernie Wu. Bernie and Grace were friendly because Bernie Wu’s daughter, Chloe, played the flute in the student orchestra with Hope. Apparently, Bernie felt comfortable enough in his friendship with Grace that he showed up forty-five minutes early and bypassed the front door. He walked Clara and Big George around the side of the house, to the backyard. He had stopped at the henhouse and pointed at each chicken, indiscriminately naming them, “Martha, Dolly, Eleanor, Ladybird, Hillary.” Bernie Wu’s wife was a big fan of Grace’s eggs and was good for five dozen a month.

Clara laughed at the names. “First ladies,” she said.

Grace and Benton were making fast, furious love in the garden shed, Grace clinging to Benton, wanting him farther and farther inside of her, wanting to become him. He thrilled her, he challenged her, he was her great big shining sun.

Grace heard what she thought were voices. Then, she clearly heard a female voice say, First ladies. She pulled away from Benton. “They’re here.”

“Already?” Benton said. He checked his watch. “Forty-five minutes early?”

Silently, they adjusted their clothes. Grace tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her pale-pink linen shift. “You ready?” she asked.

Benton nodded, and Grace swung open the door to the shed and stepped out to greet their visitors. Grace noted the confused expression on Bernie’s face when Benton followed her out. He was, at least, holding a rake and a clipboard.

Bernie then started speaking very quickly. Grace could tell he was nervous, but whether that was because he had overstepped his bounds by barging into the backyard or because he realized he had interrupted something, she wasn’t sure. Maybe he was just impressed by Clara and Big George and by the idea of Grace and Eddie’s yard being featured in the Boston Globe. Grace hoped that was it, and she endeavored to set everything back to normal while continuously smoothing the front of her dress. She tried not to think of Benton’s hands lifting it.

“Well, I’m off,” Bernie said. “I’ll be back here to pick you up at twelve thirty.” He gave Grace a smile of what seemed like genuine good luck, and she waved. Big George was already at the far edge of the property, shooting a stream of photos of the Adirondack chairs and the placid blue surface of Polpis Harbor beyond, framed by Grace’s blue lace hydrangeas.

Clara Teasdale was smitten with the yard and probably also with Benton, who was taking enormous pride in showing off his favorite features—the rocks of the streambed, the perennials, the roses, which were luscious enough to eat. The entire property was showing off. Benton lingered by the bench that held the potted ferns, and he described how he’d found the only Parisian antiques dealer wise enough to salvage the old benches from the Jardin des Tuileries.

Grace took over with Clara when it was time to talk about the hens. She even let Clara harvest half a dozen pale-blue eggs from the nesting boxes, despite the ladies’ clucking disapproval at a stranger performing this task. Grace then threw open the door to the garden shed and listened to Clara oooh and ahhh over Grace’s collection of watering cans and the high polish of the copper sink and the practicality yet allure of the soapstone countertop.

Big George snapped photos in a constant, clicking stream.

Grace showed off the riding mower in its alcove, then Big George asked Grace if she wouldn’t mind bringing it out to the middle of the emerald-green grass and perching upon it in her pink linen sheath.

Clickclickclick.

As the hour wore on, there were suggestions of other fanciful photos—one of Benton amid the roses, brandishing the largest set of clippers, one of Grace standing ankle deep in the shallow end of her pool, and one of both Benton and Grace hanging from their arms from the branch of the big elm.

Then it was time for lunch. They hadn’t discussed lunch as part of the shoot, but, nevertheless, Grace had gone all out. She’d made six kinds of tea sandwich—egg salad, naturally; cucumber and herbed cream cheese; radish and sweet butter; curried chicken salad; roast beef with horseradish mayo; and ham and baby Swiss. She had also bought three cartons of big, fat strawberries, and she’d made meringues and fresh lime curd.

Big George snapped photos of the food, and Grace was tickled.

She pulled a bottle of Schramsberg rosé sparkling wine from Eddie’s wine cellar, and, using Grace’s ten-inch chef’s knife, Benton sabered off the top. The cork landed in the daylily bed, and everyone cheered. Grace, Benton, and Clara sat for the lunch, and they posed for Big George. Grace fed Benton a strawberry. Clara overfilled her champagne flute and drowned her ham and Swiss. Grace made Big George a plate piled high with sandwiches, and when he stopped to eat, Grace stole his camera and took pictures of him stuffing his face.