And for thirty-one years, the only carpenter allowed to touch her home has been my grandfather.
Next to her stood a younger man in a gray suit, holding a leather folder.
“Emily,” Grandpa said, “this is Daniel Brooks. Margaret’s attorney. Well — as of this morning, my attorney.”
“Pro bono,” Daniel said, smiling. “Mrs. Whitmore insisted. Loudly.”
The Hales’ front door opened.
Garrison came out in a bathrobe, coffee in hand, Rolex already on his wrist — I swear the man slept in it.
He saw Grandpa and rolled his eyes.
“Frank. We settled this yesterday. You signed off—”
Then he saw Margaret Whitmore, and his whole body changed.
He straightened up.
He fixed his hair.
His voice climbed half an octave.
“Mrs. Whitmore! What a — what an unexpected pleasure. We actually just submitted our membership application to Brookfield last week, my wife and I were hoping—”
“I know,” Margaret said. “I
