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This past May, I turned sixty-five. Pearl, my beloved, asked what I wanted for my birthday. When she turned sixty-five, she wanted a party. I booked a local venue and chef, put together a 1970s top-ten playlist, and a birth-to-sixty-five video to the tune of “What I Like About You,” by the Romantics. It was a blast.
Me? I wanted a casket. I had stumbled on the Fiddlehead Casket Kits website. “Build your own pine casket in under 30 minutes with this handcrafted casket kit,” it said, “delivered directly to your door.”
I told Pearl, “I want a casket for my birthday.”
This novel began in an antique store when I fell in love with a reproduction poster from May 1874. The splendid horse, young Netherby, was available as a proven foal-getter at $4 a single leap. I was charmed by the poster but also intrigued by the idea of a farmer advertising his horse’s services in this way. I began to wonder about the farmer and gradually Larkin’s story revealed itself and the novel unspooled.
