The rest of the day was spent on the phone in my den. I spoke to the cleaning company that worked in our home, and we finalized arrangements to have Noah’s house cleaned on Thursday; I spoke to the man who pressure-washed our deck, and he would be there around noon to brighten the grand home. An electrician was coming to make sure that the generator, the outlets inside the house, and the floodlights in the rose garden were still in working order. I called the company that had repainted our law offices last year, and they promised to send a crew to begin freshening the walls inside, as well as the fence that surrounded the rose garden. A rental company would provide tents and tables, chairs for the ceremony, linens, glasses, and silverware, and all would be delivered on Thursday morning. A few employees of the restaurant would be there later to set things up, well in advance of the event on Saturday. Nathan Little was looking forward to starting his project, and when I called he informed me that the plants I’d ordered earlier that week from the nursery were already loaded on his truck. He also agreed to have his employees cart the excess furniture from the home. Finally, I made the necessary music arrangements for both the wedding and the reception; the piano would be tuned on Thursday.  The arrangements to have everything accomplished quickly weren’t as difficult as one might imagine. Not only was I acquainted with most of the people I called, but it was something I had done once before. In many ways, this burst of frenzied activity was like the work we’d done on the first home Jane and I had purchased after we got married. An old row house that had fallen on hard times, it needed a thorough remodeling job . . . which was why we’d been able to afford it. We did much of the initial gutting ourselves but soon reached the point where the skills of carpenters, plumbers, and electricians were needed.  Meanwhile, we had wasted no time trying to start a family.  We were both virgins when we said our vows; I was twenty-six, Jane was twenty-three. We taught each other how to make love in a way that was both innocent and filled with passion, gradually learning how to please each other.  It seemed that no matter how tired we were, most evenings were spent entwined in each other’s arms.

We never took precautions to prevent a pregnancy. I remember believing that Jane would become pregnant right away, and I even started adding to my savings account in anticipation of the event. She didn’t, however, get pregnant in the first month of our marriage, nor did she in the second or third months.  Sometime around the sixth month, she consulted with Allie, and later that night, when I got home from work, she informed me that we had to talk. Again, I sat beside her on the couch as she told me there was something that she wanted me to do. This time, instead of asking me to go to church, she asked me to pray with her, and I did. Somehow I knew that it was the right thing to do. We began praying together as a couple regularly after that night, and the more we did, the more I came to look forward to it. Yet more months passed, and Jane still didn’t become pregnant. I don’t know if she was ever truly worried about her ability to conceive, but I do know it was always on her mind, and even I’d started to wonder about it. By then, we were a month away from our first anniversary.

Though I’d originally planned to have contractors submit bids and conduct a series of interviews to finish the work on our home, I knew that the process had begun to wear on Jane. Our tiny apartment was cramped, and the excitement of remodeling had lost its luster. I made a secret goal to move Jane into our home before our first anniversary.

With that in mind, I did the same thing that, ironically, I would do again some three decades later: I worked the phones, called in favors, and did whatever was necessary to guarantee the work would be completed in time. I hired crews, dropped by the house at lunch and after work to monitor its progress, and ended up paying far more than I originally budgeted. Nonetheless, I found myself marveling at the speed with which the house began to take form. Workers came and went; floors were laid, cabinets, sinks, and appliances were installed. Light fixtures were replaced and wallpaper hung, as day by day I watched the calendar inch closer to our anniversary.

In the final week before our anniversary, I invented excuses to keep Jane from the house, for it is in the last week of a renovation that a house ceases to be a shell and becomes a home. I wanted it to be a surprise that she would remember forever.

“No reason to go to the house tonight,” I’d say. “When I went by earlier, the contractor wasn’t even there.” Or, “I’ve got a lot of work to do later, and I’d rather relax with you around here.”

I don’t know whether she believed my excuses—and looking back, I’m sure she must have suspected something—but she didn’t press me to bring her there. And on our anniversary, after we’d shared a romantic dinner downtown, I drove her to the house instead of our apartment.

It was late. The moon was full and cratered; cicadas had begun their evening song, their trill notes filling the air. From the outside, the house looked unchanged. Piles of scrap still lay heaped in the yard, paint cans were stacked near the door, and the porch looked gray with dust. Jane gazed toward the house, then glanced at me quizzically.

“I just want to check on what they’ve been doing,” I explained.

“Tonight?” she asked.

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s dark inside. We won’t be able to see anything.” “C’mon,” I said, reaching for a flashlight I’d stashed under my seat. “We don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to.”

I got out of the car and opened her door for her. After guiding her gingerly through the debris and up onto the porch, I unlocked the door.  In the darkness, it was impossible not to notice the smell of new carpet, and a moment later, when I turned on the flashlight and swept it through the living room and the kitchen, I saw Jane’s eyes widen. It wasn’t completely finished, of course, but even from where we stood in the doorway, it was plain that it was close enough for us to move in.

Jane stood frozen in place. I reached for her hand.

“Welcome home,” I said.

“Oh, Wilson,” she breathed.

“Happy anniversary,” I whispered.

When she turned toward me, her expression was a mixture of hope and confusion.

“But how . . . I mean, last week, it wasn’t even close . . .” “I wanted it to be a surpri............