Mug in hand, Jake frowned out the kitchen window. Eventually he said, “Did something change out there? The light’s different. Or something.”
Mrs. Miller put down her rolling pin and walked over to stand beside him. “A tree came down in the storm yesterday, just there.” She pointed. “It broke the fence.”
“What?”
She shook her head. “Not the fence-fence. The decorative fence, the split rail. Looks like they fixed it last night and cleaned everything up. It was a good sized tree.”
“Efficient little buggers,” Jake said. He ignored the older woman’s frown. “Guess I should be used to it.”
“I’d call them industrious,” she said. “By the way, Nancy asked me to remind you about the tennis court?”
“Hmm?” he muttered.
Mrs. Miller sighed. “She suggested converting the tennis court into pickleball courts. She thinks it would get more use. We talked about this a month ago.”
“Oh, yeah. Has anyone ever used that tennis court? Beyond kids goofing around, I mean.”
She shook her head. “Not in my lifetime. According to my mother, your grandmother played exactly two games before she decided she hated tennis.” She tilted your head, remembering. “Your father once decided it was silly to maintain it, year in and year out, and asked them to make it into lawn. They told him there’s more than a foot of hard-packed gravel under the clay, all of which would have to be dug out and hauled away, replaced with topsoil. And by then it was too visible from the road for them to do the work, so he’d have to hire humans. He decided to keep the tennis court.”
“So for forty or fifty years they’ve raked it and repainted the lines — what, every week? New nets every year?”
“At least,” she said. “I imagine they check it over every night, clean up the leaves and such.”
“What a waste,” Jake said.
“Well, they don’t do things by halves. Nancy said there are some groups at church who would enjoy pickleball. The conversion would be straightforward. Just new nets and lines, no changes to the structure of the court itself.”
He shrugged. “Whatever. It would mean more people hanging around here, but I suppose it should be used.”
“If you agree, Steward” — she hit the title hard — “you need to tell them.”
“Oh. Remind me later today, would you?” He put his mug down on the edge of the counter, and the housekeeper caught it as it fell. “I’m going to take a walk.”
As he headed to the door she said, “There’s a Rotary meeting this morning at eleven.”
He paused. “Is it important?”
She sniffed. “I don’t believe it’s anything special, but you’ve skipped the last two.”
“Shoot.” He looked at the kitchen clock. 10:15. The restaurant was a twenty minute drive, and he’d need to shave, shower, and put on nice clothes. 
Without further comment he drifted out the door, across the lawn, disappearing into the woods.
Grace Miller shook her head. Then she rinsed the mug and put it into the dishwasher.
And finally got back to her rolling pin.