I drop the magazine on the counter of the little shop like a kid trying to buy a nudie magazine.

“Do you have a something I could put this in?” I say in a low voice.

The owner, a middle-aged fellow in denim bib overalls and a green plaid shirt, gives me a quizzical look. Then he notices that one of the faces on the magazine’s cover looks just like mine.

“Hey, izzat—”

“Yeah, it’s me.” I glance over my shoulder at Sarah’s father, who’s still caught up in the fishing equipment on the back shelves near the fertilizer. “The bag, please?”

He stares at me for a few seconds, then shrugs. “Suit y’self.”

He slides the magazine inside a flat paper bag and I throw it in with the other things we’re picking up. Just in time, too, as Father—he lets me call him that—arrives at the till empty-handed.

“No new reel?” I ask.

“T’ain’t a necessity,” he says. “Good to see you again, George.”

The man behind the counter gives me another strange look, but he nods and we head out onto the street. It’s high summer and the heat is like a fist the second we’re outside again. It reminds me of how hot our room is going to be tonight, especially on the second floor. Sarah always says it’s fine for us to stay at a hotel in town, but I don’t want the deprive her parents of time with Emma.

“So you don’t have a copy o’ that already?” Father asks as I climb into the buggy.

I give him a sidelong long. “A copy of what?”

“That magazine with yer and Sarah’s faces on it.” He turns to face me. “Been on the shelf for days, boy. I’m not blind.”

The longer I know the guy, the more I respect him. He may think differently than I do, but in his own way he’s keen as a razor blade. I shouldn’t be surprised; I mean, look at his daughter.

“Forgive me, sir. I just wanted to get one to show Sarah.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “It’s yer way, son. I learned that a long time ago, and I won’t say anythin’ against ye for it.” He arches an eyebrow. “All I know is no man ever got his picture on a magazine for bringin’ in a crop or takin’ care of his family.”

“And that’s a shame,” I nod. “Because they deserve it.”

He looks back to the road and chucks the reins to get the horses moving. The old buckboard sways a bit as we pull out onto the gravel road that will lead out of town and back to Sarah’s family home.

“Such a man wouldn’t want his picture out there anyway,” he says. “A job well done is it’s own reward.”

Wise words from a man who I’m learning has more character than half the millionaires I know in Manhattan.

“Just to be clear,” I say, “Sarah and I didn’t want to be on the cover. But the more publicity we get, the more investment we get in the foundation.”

“Don’t need to hear n’more about it, son. Ye love my daughter, that’s all that matters.”

I nod and turn to gaze out at the cornfields in the west so that he doesn’t see the grin on my face. I wonder how many dozens of conversations between us have ended with that line over the past five years. If you’d told me before I met Sarah that I’d be learning life lessons from such a simple man, I’d have laughed in your face.

We pass the rest of the ride in companionable silence. I see Emma jogging out to meet us as Father steers the cart towards the barn next to the house. Her utter lack of fear for the horses always amazes me, though I know they’d never do anything to hurt her.

“Gampa!” she cries. “Back fum da store?”

He unhitches the team and drops to the dirt. A second later, he’s swept her up in his arms and is swinging her over his head, prompting a flurry of shrieking giggles.

“Back from the store!” he hoots. “Back to my girl!”

I climb down and join them as he sets her in the crook of his ropy arm. It makes me wonder for the umpteenth time whether I could beat him at an arm wrestle. I’m in good shape, with long arms, but the man can twist a rusted lug nut off with his fingers.

“You been helpin’ Mother and Grandmother with chores, love?” he asks her.

“Yup,” she says seriously. “Makin’ pot woast.”

“Ah, that’s my fav’rite. Your father’s, too.”

She looks at me. “Fav’rite, Daddy?”

“You bet, pumpkin. I can’t get enough of it.”

Father glances at my midsection. It amazes me how the guy can put me in my place without a single word.

We stroll towards the house and I see Sarah and her mother on the porch with glasses of sweet tea. Sarah tries to keep her wardrobe simple when we’re here, but today she chose a light cotton summer dress out of necessity. At six months along, she’s really feeling the heat. Makes me wonder how the women here manage to keep from passing out in these temperatures at the best of times, let alone when they’re expecting.

Father sets Emma down and she runs off the chase one of the barn cats. We join Sarah and Mother on the porch, and I can see the rivulets of condensation running down the sides of their glasses and pooling on the wood of the little table between their chairs.

“Justin’s got somethin’ for ye,” says Father.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“The Forbes issue came out,” I say, pulling the magazine out of the bag. “I didn’t think it was going to be a front-page article.”

She looks down at the photo of the two of us in our best suits, holding Emma between us. The words power couple cry out in huge blue type underneath. Below that, in smaller type: Justin and Sarah Bauer are living the dream and changing the world.

“What’s that about?” asks Mother.

“Just someone interviewing us about our work,” she says. “We hoped that if more people found out about our foundation that it would increase donations.”

“Africa, ain’t it?” Father asks.

“That’s part of it,” I say, taking a seat on the floor beside Sarah. “It’s diverse.”

We don’t mention the rest of the article, which will no doubt focus on the two dozen tech firms we’ve started together as well. Our holding company was named one of the top fifty employers in the country last year as well, but again, we keep that to ourselves. I’m just glad we have Nathan and Jenna in place to oversee that part of things right now, so we can focus on the foundation and the kids.

And spending time here, of course.

Emma, apparently fed up with trying to bend the old tabby to her will, toddles her way up onto the porch and picks up Sarah’s glass in both hands for a shot of tea.

“Mommy, c’n we go inna hel’copta?”

“Later, honey,” Sarah says, stroking Emma’s honey-blonde hair. “After we got back to New York.”

Mother brings her palms together and raises her eyes to the sky, which is her usual reaction whenever we talk about the chopper, so I change the subject.

“Looks like a good harvest this year.”

“God willing,” Father says, but I’m pretty sure I see his chest swell just a little. “Will you be here to help bring it in?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Mother scoops up Emma as she follows Father inside, so I take her chair next to Sarah.

“You don’t have to, you know,” she says. Those baby blue eyes still get me, even after all this time. “There’s more than enough hands with my brothers and their boys.”

“Are you kidding? They’d never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t. I think they get some kind of perverted satisfaction out of watching the city boy sweat.” I put my hand on her belly. “How’s our boy?”

“Quiet today, thank goodness. All that standing making supper was killing my back. I don’t know Mother did it as often as she did.”

“You come from tough stock, my love. Our kids are going to be some kind of mutant hybrids who can swim with sharks and shuck corn with the best of ‘em.”

She smiles and takes my hand, pulling it to her lips for a quick kiss.

“Are we dreaming?” she asks. “I mean, who’s life is like this?

“Ours, baby,” I grin. “And we earned every last bit of it. Amish or no, I think we’re entitled to be proud of that.”

We look out over the farm and watch the sun begin its slow descent into the western sky. Eventually it will paint the golden fields with red and amber light that even the skyline of Manhattan can’t compete with.