[Finally, unmistakable signs of spring, but with constant reminders that April is, indeed, the “cruelist month.” SB SM]

April

The silver-gray Mercedes hums north on I-93, the engine’s rhythm a steady heartbeat beneath the surface of Burton’s mounting anxiety. Beside him, Quinn sits in a stillness that is entirely uncharacteristic. Usually, her fingers are a blur on a touchscreen or a keyboard, but today they rest loosely in her lap, her eyes fixed on the shifting tapestry of the New England proto-spring.

As they transition onto I-89, the landscape begins to shed its suburban skin. The concrete barriers and dense thickets of the Massachusetts border give way to the ledge-cuts of New Hampshire and, finally, the soon-to-be verdant invitation of Vermont. At the moment, it is still just a promise. In a couple of weeks, this entire landscape will be vibrating with life.

“I have to admit,” Burton says, his voice breaking a comfortable twenty-mile silence. “I’m a little surprised. Not that you’re here—I wanted you here—but that you said yes. To all of it. This feels like we’re moving at triple-speed, even for a ‘Rice Rocket.'”

Quinn doesn’t flinch at the nickname; in the quiet of the cabin, it sounds like a relic of a past life she is happy to leave in the rearview mirror. She looks ahead toward the White Mountains, purple and vague on the horizon.

“My mother encouraged it,” Quinn says, her voice soft. “Linh thinks I’m a coiled spring. She told me I needed a ‘breather’ from the fast track before I snap. She said the restaurant will survive three days without me, and that I’ve never seen anything north of the Mass border except for a hockey rink in Nashua, New Hampshire. I’ve never been to Vermont. I didn’t know the world could be this … quiet.”

When they finally pull into the winding dirt driveway of The ’Stead at dusk, the transition into another world is complete. The ’Stead isn’t just a house; it is an organism. Built of painted clapboards milled from nearby trees and local fieldstone, it sits nestled in a bowl of land that seems to cradle the sunlight. Whoever picked this site for a home gave it a great deal of thought.

The air here is different, with the musk of thawing earth. The driveway is lined with ancient maples, their new buds faintly casting a dappled shadow across the hood of the car.

Henry and Grace are waiting on the porch, a perfect tableau of modern Americana. Henry, his face a map of recent winters, wears a work shirt the color of a faded sky. Grace stands beside him, her hair a silver halo, wearing a canvas gardening apron stained with the morning’s labor.

“You made it,” Henry says, his voice a low rumble. He offers Quinn a warm, wrinkled hand. “Burton says you’re the one who’s turning his pipe dream into a manifesto.”

“I just organize the data, Mr. Trottier,” Quinn replies.

“Call me Henry,” he says, “unless you’re trying to make me feel ancient. Data’s fine, but up here, the numbers that matter are the ones on the thermometer and the date on the seed packets. Let me show you the ’Stead.”

As they walk toward the barn, Henry begins to narrate the biography of the land. To Quinn, it sounds like a war report from a front she has only imagined.

“January is the trial,” Henry says, pointing to a section of the stone foundation. “Thirty below for four days straight. The pipes in the north wing froze solid at 3:00 a.m. I was down there with a heat lamp and a prayer, listening to the house groan like it was dying. You learn real quick what’s essential when the water stops moving.”

He leads her past the mudroom to a large wooden table where a stack of catalogs sits. “February is for dreaming. We spend three weeks putting together the neighborhood seed order. It’s a delicate diplomacy, Quinn—trading heirloom tomato specs with the neighbors over coffee while the snow is three feet deep outside.”

They walk out toward the back acreage, where a massive pile of brush waits for the spring burn. “This is what comes next. We spend all fall and winter feeding the burn pile: deadfall, sunflower stalks, blackberry canes, brush … you name it, we burn it. The timing is critical. It’s easy to touch off a brush fire, so we either need snow on the ground or new green grass coming in. It takes a little science and a lot of learning from mistakes.”

He stops at a long, meticulously straight row of green shoots poking through the dark soil. “We’ll get the peas in another three weeks if we’re lucky. But the first sign of hope is the garlic.” He motions her toward him as he drops to one knee and lifts a handful of hay, revealing tiny, green shoots. “Garlic… planted last October. We made it through another winter!” He stands back up. “Then there’s turning on the outdoor shower, building the pea fence, laying the papers for the garden rows… my God, there’s no end to the excitement we have in store!”

“Color me suitably impressed,” Quinn says with an easy smile. She and Henry are already pals.

“This is all you are going to get. There is no dinner to follow. It’s us, the fire, and finger food,” Grace says. There is an abundance of finger food laid out before them; no one will be going hungry.

Henry, the self-appointed keeper of the flame, gets up and adds a log to the hearth. “Plus all the wine you can drink.” He returns to the Windsor chair flanking the couch.

Burton takes this as his cue to assume center stage. He distributes four copies of the spiral-bound business plan titled The Missing Link: The Dawn of the Age of Indoor Golf. He begins with a recitation of statistics, the mention of a few celebrities, and a reference to the fervor that followed The Beatles when they brought the British Invasion to America.

“I remember the whole family watching the Ed Sullivan Show,” Henry says.

“Here, try this asparagus quiche,” Grace says, offering a small wedge to Quinn.

“Alice Cooper is on our Board of Advisors,” Burton says.

“Don’t know her,” Henry replies.

“She’s that cook who grows all her own ingredients,” Grace chimes in helpfully—or not.

“No,” Burton says, exasperated. “Alice Cooper is the rock star—the one with the giant snake. He’s a scratch golfer.”

“Here,” Grace says, offering Burton a tray of canapés. “Vermont cheddar with rhubarb chutney. I’d like to know more about our guest.”

“If I had known we would be grazing, I would have brought a selection of appetizers from our family restaurant,” Quinn says. “We have Goi Cuon, Cha Gio, Nem Nướng, and Banh Cuon. Next time.”

She has a barely detectable accent, suggesting English might not be her first language. They are seated in the wood-paneled library of The ’Stead. Desks anchor the corners of the room opposite the brick fireplace, but for the moment, all eyes are focused on the dancing flames.

“‘Quinn’ is a lovely name, but unusual,” Henry observes. “Is there a story there?”

“My full name is Kwin-Sae Nguyen,” she explains. “Nguyen is a very common Vietnamese surname, and I share my first name with my grandmother. When I started first grade at the Thomas J. Kenny School in Dorchester, the other kids didn’t want to bother with Kwin-Sae. I instantly became ‘Quincy’—the next town south—and over the years, I shortened that to Quinn.”

She smiles around the room. “I’m sure you have many questions for a strange creature like me showing up in your house, so it might be helpful to give you the Nickel Tour.”

She settles back, tracing the edge of her wineglass. “My mother was born in a refugee camp in Indonesia. Her mother had been attacked by pirates on the boat she took following the fall of Saigon. You want horror stories, she’s got them. After two years in the camp, she was admitted to the U.S., moving to a Vietnamese community in San Francisco where she worked in a nail salon. Eventually, a marriage was arranged for her with a man in Dorchester, Massachusetts, who became my father. He ran a small restaurant, and we lived in a triple-decker with thirty-nine other Vietnamese immigrants, many of whom were extended family. The house was nicknamed ‘Namchester,’ but we got along great with the neighbors. Our rules were simple: Work hard. Keep your head down. Smile. Study. Keep quiet.”

She chuckles. “I grew up a Red Sox and Patriots fan, but my first love is the Boston Bruins. I learned to ice skate on the MDC rink. I was fast and shifty, playing center on my high school girls’ hockey team, and I was good enough to be recruited by Northeastern. I was also the salutatorian of my class. I was called names, sure, but I was smart, pretty, and determined.”

“At Northeastern, her nickname on the hockey team was ‘Rice Rocket,'” Burton interrupts.

Quinn’s expression tightens. “I hate that name. It’s so racist.”

“Yeah… that’s Boston,” Burton shrugs. “You’re not going to change that overnight.”

Quinn ignores the dismissal and continues. “I graduated, then worked for a year to help my family move to North Quincy, across the Neponset River, where we bought a duplex. We lived in one half and rented the other. My father opened his own restaurant, Pho 475, and my mother worked as the hostess. Sadly, Papa passed away unexpectedly only a few months later. My mother has managed the restaurant ever since, and we all work there when we can. Right now, I’m in the final days of the MBA program at Boston University, finishing up an internship at Burton’s business, Missing Links. His business plan is actually my senior thesis. I take golf lessons from him because I know how much business is conducted by men on the golf course. I want to be able to beat them at their own game.”

“A bit of a personal question…” Henry takes a dramatic pause, scrunching his face as if smelling something foul. “But why are you wasting time with him?” He spits out the pronoun as if Burton were the malodorous object. His exaggeration is enough to make the humorous intent clear.

Everyone laughs. Quinn cheerfully takes up the challenge. “Burton is a lot of fun! He takes me to dinner, we go dancing, and we go to Bruins games. He’s a nice guy, and since I don’t have much time for a social life, it works. But he’s too old for me.”

“And I, obviously, intend to change her mind on that small detail,” Burton says smoothly.

“And he’s got his hands full with the new business,” Quinn adds, turning a sharp, analytical eye on Burton. “If you read the business plan, the future for indoor golf is unlimited, but he didn’t do his marketing homework before opening Missing Links. Plus, his partner, Arby, is a snake. It’s fun for now, but there are lots of questions for the future.”

A quiet settles over the room. Henry studies Quinn for a long moment. She holds his gaze, smiling comfortably.

“You poor child,” Henry begins softly. “You must feel like your spaceship has just dropped you off on this alien planet and said ‘Good luck’ before whizzing off.”

Grace stands, takes two steps toward Quinn, and opens her arms. Quinn rises and gladly accepts the hug.

“If you’re interested, tomorrow morning I’m going exploring for spring ephemerals. Would you like to come?” Grace asks.

“I don’t have a clue what you are talking about,” Quinn admits.

“Spring woodland flowers,” says Grace. “They’re very precious because they’re the first signs of life in the new season. My instinct tells me they might be up.”

“Prepare to be underwhelmed,” Henry warns.

Quinn turns back to Grace. “What time tomorrow?”

“Around seven, but don’t worry if you want to sleep in.”

Burton pipes up, “Hey, what am I … chopped liver?”

Later, when Henry comes to bed, Grace is still awake.

“Postmortem?” she asks.

“On tonight?” Henry clarifies.

“Yes.”

“Food was great, the fire was nice, Quinn is beyond impressive, and Burton’s heading for yet another fall. And you?”

“Bingo, bingo, bingo, and bingo,” Grace agrees.

“He’s on the rebound from Jody, and he’s making the same mistake all over again,” Henry sighs. “How much younger was she? Something like nineteen years?”

“And Quinn is so smart,” Grace adds.

“Jody was smart, too. Smart enough not to get stuck with Burton. I think Quinn will disappear pretty quickly after she gets her MBA.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Think she will join you tomorrow?”

“Not a chance!”

Coffee is already waiting when Grace walks downstairs the next morning. Quinn is sitting at the kitchen table in the predawn dimness, scrolling on her phone.

She looks up. “Chào buổi sáng,” she says. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Grace returns, pleasantly amused. “You found the coffee. Are you ready for ephemerals?”

“As we say in Vietnam, the early bird gets the skunk cabbage.”

Grace laughs at the clever retort; skunk cabbage is indeed the first visible green of the woodland spring.

The mud has stiffened overnight, making for solid footing as they head toward the low-lying wetlands near the brook, Grace’s favorite stalking ground. Grace is delighted to point out a painted trillium. Quinn, despite Henry’s warnings, is suitably impressed. Soon, Grace spots another treasure: a delicate yellow flower rising from spotted green leaves.

“Adder’s Tongue,” Grace says.

“Also known as Trout Lily, Erythronium americanum,” Quinn adds matter-of-factly.

Grace straightens up, pleasantly surprised. Someone has done her homework.

Further down the path, they find a plant with delicate, fern-like leaves and a spiky, pale yellow flower. “I know this one,” Grace mutters, “but the name is escaping me at the moment.”

Quinn smiles. “Dutchman’s Breeches.”

As they walk back toward the house, Quinn looks at the sprawling gardens, the orchard, and the endless forest. “It’s an incredible amount of work to keep this place going. It never stops, does it?”

Grace’s expression shifts. The vibrancy fades into something wistful, a quiet shadow crossing her face. She looks at her hands, spotted with age.

“No, it doesn’t stop,” Grace says softly. “But we are starting to. Henry and I… we’re getting older, admitting for the first time that we can’t keep the pace up forever. The ’Stead demands everything we have. Henry calls her ‘the jealous mistress.'” She looks out over the valley. “If we had any sense at all, we’d put the place on the market tomorrow. We’d scout out one of those assisted living options in Burlington where someone else worries about pipes and blackberries.”

She pauses, then a spark of the old fire returns to her eyes. She mimics a theatrical, defiant stance, her hand gripping her pruning shears as if they are a scepter.

“But as Charlton Heston would say,” she quips with a wink, “they’ll have to pry my pruning shears out of my cold, clenched fingers!”

Quinn bursts into a genuine laugh, the tension of the city finally draining out of her. They are two fierce women, neither ready to give up.

Burton arrives in the kitchen riding a wave of adrenaline. Henry is seated at the table, studying the business plan from the night before.

Burton’s voice is animated. “Quinn’s projections show that the ‘sim-golf’ sector is the only part of the industry growing by double digits. We’re going to be the hub for the entire metro area. I’ve got options on six more locations.”

“Not worth much if you can’t get the first one off the ground.”

“The data doesn’t lie. People want the game without the four-hour commitment.” Burton points to a graph. “See?”

“I can’t understand this,” Henry says, flipping the business plan onto the table. “I understand hammers and nails and wood. And so do you. Look what you did with Court Street. You started the brewery, brought in other retail, upgraded and expanded the residential units. And you made a bundle. Even with the divorce, you could be set for life! But this… this is entertainment. It’s leisure and disposable income. I don’t get it, and I do get that you can lose your shirt.”

“But I’m not going to, especially now that I have a copilot in Quinn. She’s all the things I’m not.”

“But she’s also a woman you’ve just met, and she’s only twenty-five. Remember how fucked up you were at twenty-five?”

“Kids are different today,” Burton says. “She’s way more mature than I am.”

The irony lingers for a moment, then both men are laughing.

“That’s for damn sure,” Henry says. “Just don’t ask me to invest.”

After a lunch of BLTs on sourdough, pickles, and chips, everyone says their fond adieus. Henry and Grace wave as the Mercedes pounds down the dirt road and around the bend.

“He says he’s in love,” Grace says. “That she’ll find the trapdoor before he gets himself in trouble and save him from himself.”

“And she’s everything he thinks she is, and more,” Henry sighs. “But she’s also twenty-five with a whole world in front of her. I’m afraid old Burton’s cruising for another bruising. All she’ll do is tell him when the rocket is running out of fuel.”

“It was good to see him happy.”

“Hope springs eternal.”