She was on a sabbatical in order to write a book about Henry David Thoreau and his relevance for the modern-day environmentalist movement.
Later in the year she planned to visit Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, funded by a research grant.
This seemed pretty good. Almost annoyingly good. A good life with a good daughter and a good man in a good house in a good town.
It was an excess of good. A life where she could sit down all day reading and researching and writing about her all-time favourite philosopher.
‘This is cool,’ she told the dog. ‘Isn’t this cool?’ Plato yawned indifference.
Then she set about exploring her house, being watched by the Labrador from the comfy-looking sofa.
The living room was vast. Her feet sunk into the soft rug.
White floorboards, TV, wood-burner, electric piano, two new laptops on charge,
a mahogany chest on which perched an ornate chess set, nicely stacked bookshelves.
A lovely guitar resting in the corner. Nora recognised the model instantly as an electro-acoustic ‘Midnight Satin’ Fender Malibu.
She had sold one during her last week working at String Theory.
There were photos in frames dotted around the living room.
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