“No, not that one. I don’t like that texture,” I said as Mark, my husband of twenty-eight years, heaved the heavy clay planter back on the shelf with a grunt. “And I’m not sure about the color. You know how the light in Flagstaff is whiter?" Phoenix always had a tinge of orange because of the dust and smog. I looked at Mark apologetically and bit my lip. “I’m not being too high maintenance, am I?”“No, sweetie, we’re in no...