All There Is

By Kathleen Lawrence

Jackie Christopher, a devoted mother and wife, lives a quiet, suburban life. She has a comfortable home, good friends and all the Pinot Noir she can drink. It is enough... on most days. But her domestic tranquility is shattered when she attends her 15-year college reunion and is reacquainted with Charlie Wade, her first true love. Jackie has often secretly wondered how her life might have turned out differently if tragedy had not intervened.

In seeing Charlie again, it is as though Jackie leaps across time and is intensely alive again for the first time in years. But at what cost? Jackie is torn between her commitment to her family and Charlie. As Jackie struggles to make peace with her life, the Sixth Sense-like plot twist reveals how the seemingly disjointed pieces of her past are connected to the present if only she looks deeply enough.
Written with humor and grace, you will laugh with Jackie and you will cry with her too. All There Is is that good a story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456600419

Book preview

8:7

One

It came in the mail today. A white envelope among the credit card teasers and Shop Wise circulars. I know what it is without having to rip it open and read the contents. Carol, my dear college friend, told me they’d been mailed and I could expect mine ‘any day’. I cradle the stack of mail in the crook of my arm and bring it into the house. I set it on the kitchen table, the one envelope on top, face up. I stare at my printed name - Jacqueline Meyers Christopher - on the address label. It is strange to see my maiden name linked to my married name, as though I never surrendered my identity for my husband’s. Carol will be calling soon, to see if I’m coming, as I promised her I would. I am someone who keeps her word.

It is only one night, I reason, the aggregate of four to six hours. It has taken me longer to clean my house. Surely, I can get through it, especially with a glass or two of Pinot noir. Fifteen years is a long time, a lifetime, an eternity. And I have gotten on with my life, I remind myself. I am married to a good man, Ted Christopher, and I have two beautiful children whom I am convinced are the most delightful creatures in the world. It is enough, on most days.

And yet I still wonder what my life would have been like with Charlie. I’ll catch my mind wandering off sometimes, while I am rinsing the shampoo from my hair or waiting in the checkout line at Holiday Market. I would never admit this to anyone. Not even Carol. There are some things we never tell a soul.

I reach for the envelope and notice my fingers tremble slightly. Must be the extra cup of coffee I had earlier this morning. I tear it open and unfold the printed invitation. I read it. My

fifteen-year college reunion will be held on the night of August 30, 2008 at the Grand Oaks Hotel. Cocktails will be available at six pm and dinner will be served at eight. It is not far from my home in Fellows Creek, twenty minutes tops, in good traffic.

Fellows Creek is a sleepy little wisp of a town, tucked between Detroit to the east and Ann Arbor to the south. If you hold out your right hand, palm facing up, it is about an inch due west from the base of your thumb. About twenty years ago, Fellows Creek was vast farmland, corn fields extending in every direction. But now it is the textbook definition of urban sprawl. Subdivisions keep cropping up, each one boasting more square footage and better amenities than the last. I live in a quiet neighborhood, mostly colonials, but a few cape cods and ranches are tucked in too. The developer likely wanted to break up the rooflines. I have great neighbors, the kind that give you tomatoes off their own vines and snow blow the driveway when Ted is traveling on business. And the public schools are rated well-above average, real estate agents love to point this out when listing a property in our zip code. Taxes are reasonable and crime is low, unless you count the pranksters who decided to go on a little caper this summer, dumping lawn chairs in swimming pools and knocking over birdbaths. Despite its homogeneousness, there are worse places to raise a family.

I glance at the calendar. The reunion falls on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, probably to accommodate classmates traveling from out of state. We have nothing scheduled on that evening. No neighborhood barbeque, no last hoorah to end the summer. And so I have no excuse to not attend.

Will Charlie be there? Of course that is the question that will nag at me in the upcoming month, though I will pretend I don’t care one way or the other. Carol will know who’s attending. She always knows these things and will gladly share with me the status of Charlie’s RSVP. She will know if he is bringing his wife. At least I will be prepared. I inhale deeply, willing the oxygen to clear my head. What do I do? I would love to see Carol and the others. To see those old familiar faces from a time when possibilities seemed endless, our lives stretching out in front of us like a wild mountain meadow. I could go… and surprise myself, have a wonderful time. Or I could stay home with Ted and the boys. We could make a run to BlockBuster, rent a family- friendly movie and order take-out. The House of Woo usually runs a two-for-one special, if you place your order before six o’clock.

It’s ironic really. There are probably many classmates agonizing over this same decision but for very different reasons: the women because they have gained too much weight and the men because they have lost too much hair. But the women can still diet and the men could always try Rogaine. The reunion is over a month away. There is still time, except for me. My time ran out a long time ago and whether the reunion was held today or next year would make little difference.

August 30, 2008. The night of my fifteen- year college reunion. I decided to attend. Carol called the day after I received the invitation and was most persuasive, reminding me of that promise I made when I missed the ten-year. She also told me that Charlie would be coming and lowered her voice to just above a whisper to add that he is not bringing his wife, though she does not have the goods on why he is flying solo. I feel a ripple of jealously knowing that he is married, but also a beat of relief that there will be no gorgeous blond clinging to his arm, inviting the inevitable comparison. Ted is coming with me and he is the perfect companion at social events, mingling with ease among people he does not know and refilling my wine glass when needed. Ted is solicitous when there is an audience, though in fairness to him, I doubt he realizes the difference between his public behavior and his private habits.

I am summoned from my daydream when my five year old son, Noah, bounces into the kitchen wearing a completely filthy soccer jersey.

You can’t wear that. It has grass stains all over it. I tell him. Noah is a genetic marvel, his features are in complete harmony. He has china blue eyes and a perfectly shaped nose. Noah was beautiful from the moment he was born. His disposition is an entirely different matter.

But I have a soccer game today.

Yes, but I need to wash it first.

He stomps his foot like a bull ready to charge. Since I don’t have a red cape, I relent and let him wear it for now. Maybe I can coax him out of it later, wash it, and hopefully it’ll be ready by game time.

What are we having for breakfast? Noah asks.

Scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. I place a helping of eggs in front of him.

Yuck!!! I hate scrambled eggs.

Noah, just try them. They have lots of protein which will help make you grow big and strong.

They look like poop! I rub my temples. I have no parental backup this morning. Ted is golfing until later this afternoon.

Noah, we don’t talk that way at the table. Just one small bite. I plead.

No! I hate eggs. You can’t make me eat them. He hurls his plate onto the kitchen floor. The plate shatters, sending clumps of scrambled eggs to suction themselves to the wood floor. This will not be easy to clean up.

I want to hurl Noah across the floor. Go to your room for a time-out. My patience is waning. I have been awake less than an hour.

At least tonight, no one will throw his dinner on the floor. Tonight, someone else will cook for me. Tonight, someone else will wash the dishes. And tonight, I will see Charlie again for the first time in over fifteen years.

Two

As soon as Ted gets home from golfing, I escape my family and make a run to Nordstrom’s. I wasn’t going to buy anything new for the reunion, but I’ve been through my closet a hundred times, trying on different dresses I have previously worn to weddings or Christmas parties and my options are either too tight or too dated or both. Still I dread the harsh reality of the fitting room so I have prolonged this purchase off until the late possible minute. And I hate the idea of spending a fortune on a dress I will wear once, even if Charlie is there to see me in it. Maybe I can find something on the clearance rack.

On my way out the door, Zachary, my eight year old son, asks where I am going. Zachary is a rare child - smart, athletic, and funny in equal measure. He delights in speaking with a British accent, imitating his beloved characters from Harry Potter. He makes friends easily and our phone rings constantly for him, though sometimes he prefers keeping his own company.

I’m going shopping for a new dress.

For the ‘union? he asks.

Yes, for the RE-union.

Will it be long like your marrying dress?

Probably not that fancy. I kiss him on the cheek.

At Nordstrom’s, I am in the fitting room trying on the usual fare of sequined and lace dresses. The dress I am trying on now looked promising on the mannequin, but when I tug in on over my hips, I realize that it bulges at the tummy, leaving my cellulite with no where to hide. And I could do without the reality of the three- way mirror, even my butt looks flabby from this angle. This is far too much reality for me. I try on simple black sheathe, black is supposed to be slimming, right? But under these glaring fluorescent lights, I look anemic. A bead of perspiration trickles down my spine. So much for ambient lighting, you could perform a triple bypass under this wattage. And to think that Ted assumes I am having fun.

The saleslady, fearing her commission is in jeopardy, brings me a simple but elegant navy pantsuit . I had not thought of a pantsuit, but the idea appeals to me. It says, ‘I am not trying all that hard to impress you,’ though I acutely remember how Charlie liked me dressed in blue because of my eyes. I try it on. The silky fabric drapes luxuriously and will not readily show wrinkles. The pants have a flat front with no pockets and are boot cut at the ankle, minimizing my tummy and thighs. The jacket sleeves are ¾ length, which accentuates my slender wrists, the only part of my anatomy that could be labeled as such these days. And I can save 15% by opening a new charge account!

I return home triumphant with my handled shopping bag, my new purchase tucked between crisp pieces of white tissue paper. I’m home! I call out. Ted is lounging in the Bergere chair, his feet propped up on the ottoman. Some college football game is on the HD screen. I swear I can count the blades of grass as the camera zooms in to measure for the first down. I don’t ask which teams are playing because I don’t care. I used to feign interest but a lot changes in twelve years of marriage, not just my dress size.

What did you buy? Zachary asks.

Ta`da. I pull out the pantsuit.

It’s nice, Jackie, Ted says, without shifting his eyes from the screen.

They’re pants, for Christ’s sakes, says Zachary.

Zachary, we do not use the Lord’s name in vain.

"But you said you went shopping for a dress."

Well, yes I did, but I found this instead. I gesture toward the pantsuit, using my best Vanna White impression, all smiles and cheerfulness. Noah is searching the empty bag for a surprise that isn’t there. Both Noah and Zachary are disappointed. It looks much better once I put it on. Neither one looks convinced and Ted only nods. The team Ted wants to win scores a touchdown and he is on his feet cheering and clapping, nearly tipping over the ottoman in his enthusiasm. In the early years of marriage, I used to parade around the house in my newly purchased outfits, giving Ted a private fashion show. He’d whistle his appreciation. Of course, I never strutted the way those models do, all hip bones and attitude. But it was fun to see his reaction and it was the closest I ever got to the glamour of the runway.

I am upstairs getting myself ready for the reunion when I hear a knock on the door. It must be Cari, the babysitter. Ted ushers her in and briefs her on what to feed the boys for dinner and when to put them to bed. Noah will not go down without a bedtime story, and will select the longest book we own, cleverly postponing his bedtime as long as he can. Cari’s our regular sitter and knows what’s she is in for. I hear Ted instruct her on where the emergency numbers are written, just in case Noah decides he’s Superman and flings himself down the stairs.

I scour through my closet looking for my silver evening bag. I spot it shoved back on the top shelf under a stack of forgotten sweaters. I stand on my tiptoes and I yank it down by the shoulder strap. I hear a jingle. Maybe some loose change. I reach into the inner pocket and instead find my charm bracelet. I had forgotten I stowed it here, though I remember exactly why I stopped wearing it. I seek out that heart-shaped charm and my chest squeezes tight. There it is - the charm - amazingly still shiny after all these years of neglect.

My brother gaved you that. I turn to see Noah poking his head through the closet door.

This bracelet? I am holding it between my fingers.

Yep. Noah nods his head in that exaggerated way that kindergartens do, his chin jutted out for extra measure.

You must be thinking of the bracelet he gave me for Christmas last year, the one from the Santa store. Our PTO sponsors a Santa store and offers inexpensive trinkets for the students to buy for their families. No single item is priced over ten dollars.

"No, I mean that one. Noah inches in for a closer look and points, his finger almost touching the bracelet. I know better than to argue and am running too late to dig through my jewelry box to show him the other bracelet, the one that Zachary gave me with the word Mom" etched in a silver heart. I place the bracelet I hold in my hand, a gift from Charlie many years ago, on top of my vanity. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to shove it to the back of a drawer or stuff it into my evening bag. It’s seen enough darkness.

Downstairs, I remind the boys to be good for Cari. Remember, she did not bring her whistle to referee you two. I Turn to her. Good luck, and call if you need us. But anything short of profuse bleeding or unconsciousness, Cari can handle.

Ted, you have the tickets right? I ask as we pull out of the driveway. He pats his breast pocket in reply. After all these years of marriage, we do not always need words to communicate.

I flip down the visor mirror, checking my appearance, again. I use my fingers to fluff my hair and bare my teeth like a rabid dog, checking for an errant lipstick smudge. Ted tells me I look nice, his standard compliment when we are going out for the evening.

Thank you, I mutter. Out of the corner of my eye, I take in Ted’s profile. Ted has a generous mouth that finds itself turned up in a smile more often than not and an open, honest face. And Ted is exceedingly polite. His parents taught him well. He never fails to take off his shoes when he enters the house or put down the toilet seat after he’s finished in the bathroom. Ted is predictable, that’s for sure. He always checks the weather before leaving the house, lest it rains and he forgets his umbrella, a gift from Zachary one year for Father’s Day. And you can count on Ted to support the Republican Party. Though he’d never admit it, I suspect he votes straight ticket in national elections. I could do worse. But I’d be thrilled someday if he’d bring home ice cream sundaes for dinner or offer to paint my toenails rosebud red.

We ride to the hotel saying little, caught up in our own thoughts. I wonder what Charlie will looks like? I try to imagine his face aged fifteen years, like one of those computer-generated images of missing children that appear on the back of milk cartons. And what will he think of me? Has he wondered about me in these intervening years? And what will he think of Ted? I imagine he will think I could have done better. Isn’t that what all old boyfriends think of their former girlfriends’ husbands?

We arrive at Grand Oaks Hotel at 6:30 PM. I am not ready for this and yet I have waited for this night for fifteen long years. Ted graciously opens the car door for me and escorts me to the main entrance of the hotel. He reaches for my hand, but I pretend I am searching in my handbag for a stick of gum. I tell myself that my avoidance is because my palms are sweaty and I do not want to reveal my nervousness to Ted. But the truth is, I do not want Charlie’s first image of me to be holding hands with my husband. After all, Charlie will be coming alone, without his wife. I congratulate myself on my sensitivity.

Ted takes my elbow instead and steers me into the lobby. I want to shrug off his possessiveness, but can’t think how to do so discreetly. It is as though Ted senses something, like a predator, alert for poachers, pulling in his felled prey a little closer. Ted knows I dated someone named Charlie during college and he knows Charlie is expected here tonight. I casually slipped his name into the mix when reciting to Ted the reunion attendees. I am thankful now that I never elaborated to Ted about my relationship with Charlie or about our breakup for that matter. As far as Ted knows, it was only a passing fling, nothing serious enough to threaten a marriage.

Ted and I enter the lobby. The floor is laid with black and white marbled squares, like a giant chessboard. Chandeliers hang from the double-storied ceiling, dripping with layers of teardrop crystals like the tiaras of English royalty. It is the kind of opulence that makes me feel humbled, as if I should apologize for the clacking of my heels as I walk across the floor.

There is a welcoming board near the reception desk indicating that the Foster’s College Reunion, Class of 1993, will be held in the Main Ballroom. Foster’s is a small, private, liberal arts college located in the western part of the State, ten miles from the shores of Lake Michigan. Enrollment hovers around 2,000, smaller than the high school my children will attend. Foster’s offered me a full academic scholarship so I scrapped my plans to become a Michigan State Spartan and headed westward.

Ted and I proceed down a long hallway to the appointed room. There is an arched canopy of yellow and green balloons, our school colors. A small crowd gathers in front of a white-skirted table, their heads bent as they sign a guest book and search for their nametags. I feel a pulse of panic when I realize I do not recognize a single face.

I sign the guest book and affix my nametag to my jacket with exaggerated care, stalling for time, hoping Carol will come rushing to my rescue. She knows everyone and never forgets a face. Ted is making small talk with the couple in front of us, perfectly at ease, as though he is the classmate. Once inside the ballroom, my body’s radar is humming, ready to intercept a Charlie sighting I catch the eye of a burly man in an expensive suit who looks at me quizzically. He looks too old to be a classmate, his face is swollen and his complexion ruddy, as though his necktie is sucking the air from his lungs.

Jackie? He calls and I lower my gaze discreetly, searching in vain for a nametag. But there is nothing on his barrel of a chest but the pinstripe of his suit. An attractive woman approaches, her hair swept into a twist, showing off her swan-like neck.

There you are, Michael, she chirps. She is carrying a glass of red wine in each hand and gives one to ‘Michael.’ Now it clicks. The man standing before me is Michael Carlton, though we called him ‘Mike’ in college.

Mike, how are you? I answer.

After we exchange small talk, I introduce Mike to Ted and he introduces us to his wife. Introductions made, we learn that the Carltons own their own restaurant in Cedar Rapids a few counties over. Ted gives the Carltons a thumbnail sketch of our lives, all neat and tidy, the rough edges sanded down. As Ted is pulling the boys’ pictures from his wallet, I am whirled around to the chime of my name. ‘JACKIE’! Before me stands my best and dearest friend, Carol. I have not seen Carol in over a year. She now lives in California now with her husband, George. Carol is nearly as I remember, holding off the advance of age with graceful deterrence.

The two of us roomed blind our freshmen year, meaning we did not know each other prior to enrollment. Carol came from a wealthy Grosse Pointe family but despite her advantaged upbringing, she was amazingly compassionate. Carol would cry at the most common of things: a broken Robin’s egg at the edge of the sidewalk or an abandoned home with the windows boarded up, a foreclosure sign in the front yard.

God, it’s good to see you I exhale. The knots in my shoulders begin to loosen their grip.

Jackie, you look marvelous. Your boobs look bigger, Carol whispers devilishly. Have you had work?

Oh. Please, I groan.

You always had the best rack of any of us. In fact, didn’t the school officials have them bronzed? I think they’re on display in the student union.

I laugh heartily. It must be fun living with her. It is then I realize I haven’t seen her husband. I ask Carol where he is.

George decided to stay home. He’s got a big trial coming up that he needs to prepare for and he didn’t mind my coming alone. Foolishly, the man trusts me. Carol winks at me.

I may have to have a chat with him. Ted says.

But isn’t that the point? To behave terribly at your class reunion? But don’t worry, I won’t corrupt your wife. Carol says.

Like I would need your help! I say.

Ted takes our drink orders and muscles his way to the bar. Carol and I are alone, the Carltons now engaged in discussion with another couple.

Have you seen him? Carol lowers her voice.

Who? I keep my face blank.

Carol raises her eyebrows and narrows her eyes as if to say, ‘You can’t play dumb with me, girlfriend.’

No, I have not, I straighten my posture and roll my shoulders back to muster as much dignity as I can.

Jack, you don’t have to pretend with me. I know you’re dying to see him, for curiosity’s sake if nothing else.

Okay, I admit, I am curious to see him. But I’m a happily married woman.

Isn’t that an oxymoron? Carol muses.

The Carltons rejoin our conversation and they talk about how she is redecorating the restaurant. She’s hired a decorator to consult on fabric selections for the upholstered pieces and a graphic artist is handling the changes to the menu. Carol tells us that she recently opened her own floral design business. She specializes in fresh floral arrangements for corporate events. She does this not for money, but to occupy herself when her children are in school. A tinge of insecurity nips at me. I don’t work outside the home. I’m not redecorating anything in my home, unless the kitchen pantry counts. I just ordered some shelving from Williams-Sonoma to organize my canned goods. (Ted complains he can never find anything.) And I just barely keep up with weeding the flower beds, let alone have time or the talent to arrange the stems artfully in a vase.

Ted returns with our drinks, and I am grateful for the interruption. I can forego my turn at show and tell. Ted hands me a glass of wine. I take a large sip and let the velvety texture settle on my tongue before I swallow. I will the alcohol to make me a more charming and witty version of myself.

As the room begins to swell with classmates and bright chat, I recognize more faces, but still no sight of Charlie. I try to follow the ribbon of conversation, but it is hard to concentrate. Mike is telling a John McCain joke, poking fun at his advanced age. Out of the corner of my eye I catch movement as a masculine figure approaches. I take a quick gulp of wine and purposely tighten my abdominal muscles. I lean in closer to the center of the huddle as though I am utterly transfixed by the joke that Mike is telling, as though I have not heard it before on late night TV. I am disappointed that it is Joey Morelli, and not Charlie, who walks over to greet us.

Carol and I take turns hugging him. He is not traditionally handsome, but is boyishly cute in that way that women find irresistible.

Joey tells us that he accepted a position with the Fairland County’s Prosecutors Office. No high profile cases yet, but I like putting the bad guys away." Joey introduces us to his wife, who wears no discernible makeup. She is at home like me raising her children and wears a simple cotton dress. I like her instantly.

The conversation drifts to our college days. Carols has the floor now. I’ll never forget that Halloween party we threw our sophomores year. People were everywhere, jammed into our dorm room and out in the hall, when the Resident Advisor shows up. God, that man was beautiful. Everything got real quiet. I threw Jackie into the hall to talk to him. Anyway, what did he say to you? Carol turns to me to finish the story.

I felt ridiculous, half dressed in that ‘Jeanie’ costume, a poor excuse for Barbara Eden. He asked who lived here and I told him, ‘Thelma and Louise.’ Then he asked how old we were and as sophomores, of course, none of us were of legal drinking age. He asked for some ID. I was flustered and waving my arms about when some Kleenex I’d stuffed in that silly pink brassier popped out. He bent to pick it up and said, ‘Here, I think you dropped this.’ Then he leaned in real close, cupped his hand around my ear and whispered, ‘I dream of Jeanie’. That was it. He turned and walked away. I finished.

Good thing you were packing paper product or you’d have been expelled. Joey laughs.

No, it was the rack! Jack never needed augmentation. Carol counters. Speaking of outrageous outfits, have you seen June? They’ll need the jaws-of -life to free her from get-up she has on.

As I am scanning the room pretending to look for June, I see Charlie at the sign in table. I would know him anywhere. He is searching for his nametag so I have a few seconds to appraise him undetected. He is still movie-star gorgeous and sports the same lean build, though he has filled out some in the last decade and a half. I can feel my heart drumming in my ears. I take a large swallow of wine. Charlie turns from the table and our eyes lock. He doesn’t smile or wave, but his face is flushed with an emotion I can not read, affection, regret, longing, anger? Charlie Wade is the first man I ever loved and like all first loves, he has left his imprint, which has faded little in the intervening years.

I excuse myself and break free of the conversational circle, heading straight for Charlie. My knees feeling shaky as I approach him and I am glad I wore low highs to minimize the possibility that I might trip.

Jackie, how are you? There is an awkward moment as we can’t decide whether to shake hands or embrace. We clumsily decide on the later.

You look lovely. Charlie says. Heat rises to my cheeks.

A few extra pounds over the years. Instinctively, my hand moves to cover my tummy. God, I’m such an idiot.

Well, I think you look fantastic.

You look well yourself.

Thanks. A little less hair to comb now, He runs his fingers through his hair, which may have thinned slightly, but in this dim light, it is hard to tell. Why do we do this? Apologize for getting older?

You still stay in shape, I say.

I try. I pound the treadmill a couple times a week.

So you’re married? He eyes my wedding ring.

Yes. I don’t offer to introduce him to Ted just yet. And I have two children. I add quickly, steering the conversation away from my marriage. I give him the run down on the boys. I can’t keep the swell of pride that creeps into my voice.

How about you? He holds out his ringed left hand to indicate marriage. And a daughter, Isabelle, who’s six.

Having established marital status and that we have three children between us, there is a moment of uncomfortable silence. Ironic, because there are a gush of questions I wish to ask him, but I find myself tongue-tied and so for now, they stay jammed at the back of throat. Are you and Carol still close? Charlie asks.

Yes, we still keep in touch. Mostly emails and the occasional phone call. Carol lives in California now so it’s hard.

As if on cue, Carol bounds over. There you are. I was wondering where you sneaked off to. She wedges herself between us.

Hey, I floated you a couple of emails but never heard back from you! Carol scolds Charlie."

Beth, my wife, intercepted those. At the mention of her name, my heart lurches, though my own husband is standing twenty feet away. Here’s my new email address. She doesn’t have access to this account. Charlie fishes in his breast pocket and hands Carol and I each a business card. So there it is for the taking - Charlie’s contact information is right in the palm of my hand,a few strokes of the keyboard and I can communicate with him.

Carol spies my nearly empty wine glass and offers to buy us a round drink.

It’s an open bar, I remind her.

I’ll take whatever light beer they’ve got in a bottle. Charlie says.

You two better behave while I’m gone. No friskiness ‘til I get back. I don’t want to miss the fun stuff. Carol disappears, leaving us alone in her wake.

She hasn’t changed. Charlie shakes his head in mock disapproval.

Thank God.

Do you still run the family business? It would be impolite of me not to ask.

Yes, I’m in still in the business. With so many people wanting to Go Green, we are one of the few industries that are profiting from Global Warming. He points the business card. If you feel the urge to go Al Gore, we just came out with a new eco-friendly product line, everything from sustainable decking products to yard designs that minimize grass surface areas.

"Why would I want less grass?"

"It would substantially reduce the need for