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“It’s not just me and Kaye. The boys love the idea.”

“Race, they’re four years old.”

“That’s not what I meant. They spend half their time in daycare. I see them two weeks out of four if I’m lucky. Boys like that—they need fresh air, room to roam.”

“Trust me, son, country life is much more appealing in the abstract.”

“You turned out fine. Take it as a compliment.”

He feels a growing frustration. “But what will you do out there? You don’t know anything about horses. Even less than I do.”

“We’ve thought about that. We’re planning on starting a vineyard.”

It is a pie-in-the-sky plan if ever he heard one; it has dreamy Kaye written all over it.

“We had the land checked out,” Race continues, “and it’s close to ideal—dry summers, damp winters, the right kind of soil. I have some investors, too. It won’t happen overnight, but in the meantime, Kaye can teach at the township school. She already has an offer. If we’re careful with money, that should tide us over until we’re up and running.”

Gone unspoken, of course, is the underlying criticism: Race wants to be around for his boys, a deep part of their lives, as Logan failed to do for him.

“You’re really certain about this?”

“We are, Dad.”

A brief silence passes as Logan searches for something to say that might dissuade his only child from this ludicrous plan. But Race is a grown man; the land is just sitting there; he has expressed the desire to sacrifice something important on behalf of his family. What can Logan do but agree?

“I guess I can call the lawyer to get the ball rolling,” he concedes.

His son seems surprised; for the first time, it occurs to Logan that Race expected he might say no. “You mean it?”

“You’ve made your case. It’s your life. I can’t argue with it.”

His son looks at him earnestly. “I meant what I said. I want to pay you what it’s worth.”

Logan wonders: What is something like that worth? Nothing. Everything.

“Don’t worry about the money,” he insists. “We’ll figure that out when the time comes.”

The waitress arrives with the bill, which Race, in jocular spirits, insists on paying. Outside, a car is waiting to take him to the airfield. Race thanks his father again, then says, “So I’ll see you Sunday at Mom’s?”

Logan is momentarily confused. He has no idea what his son is talking about. Race senses this.

“The party? For the boys?”

Now Logan remembers: a birthday party for the twins, who are turning five. “Of course,” he says, embarrassed by the lapse.

Race waves this away with a laugh. “It’s fine, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”

The driver is standing by the door. “Captain Miles, I’m afraid we really have to be going.”

Logan and his son shake hands. “Just don’t be late, okay?” Race admonishes him. “The boys are excited to see you.”

—

The next morning, back from his morning swim, Logan sees Nessa’s article in the paper. Page 1, below the fold; it is neutral, as these things go. The conference and his opening address, mention of the protestors and “the ongoing controversy,” snippets of their conversation in his office. Curiously, this disappoints him. His words seem wooden and performed. The article contains a perfunctory stiffness; Nessa has described him as “professorial” and “reserved,” both of which are true enough but feel reductive. Is that all he is? Is that what he’s become?

For two days the conference occupies him utterly. There are panels and meetings, lunches and, in the evenings, gatherings for drinks and dinner. His moment of triumph, and yet he feels a growing depression. Some of this is Race’s announcement; Logan does not like to think of his son abandoning his accomplishments to eke out a living in the middle of nowhere. Headly cannot even be said to be a proper town. There is a mercantile, a post office, a hotel, a farm supply store. The school, which includes all grades, is housed in a single, ugly building made of concrete and possesses neither playing fields nor a library. He thinks of Race wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a sweat-sodden kerchief encircling his neck and insects buzzing around his face, shoving a spade into the unforgiving earth while his wife and children, bored beyond measure, fidget in the house. Scenes of provincial life: Logan should have sold the place years ago. It is all a terrible mistake he is powerless to correct.

On Thursday night, his conference duties concluded, he returns to the courtyard apartment where he has lived since his divorce. It was, like many things in life, meant to be temporary, but six years later, here he is. It is compact, tidy, without much character; most of the furniture was purchased in haste during the confusing early days of separation. He makes a simple dinner of pasta and greens, sits down to eat in front of the television, and the first thing he sees is his own face. The footage was taken immediately after the conference’s closing ceremonies. There he is, microphones hovering around his head, his face washed to corpselike whiteness by the harsh glare of the television crew’s lights. “STUNNING REVELATIONS,” the banner at the bottom of the screen reads. He turns it off.