Sharyn Mccrumb_Elizabeth MacPherson_07 by MacPherson's Lament

perfect condition, lovingly cared for by its house-proud occupants. From the sweeping oak staircase in the front hall to the dormer rooms in the well-swept attic, the house was wonderful. Bill wished he could buy it himself, but the asking price of one million, five hundred thousand was well beyond his means. In fact, he would be hard-pressed to afford the paint for the shutters at his current income level.
    Still, he supposed that someone living in the exorbitant urban sprawl between New York and Boston might consider one point five million a bargain price for six thousand square feet of historic house on three acres of oak-shaded lawns.
    Bill decided that he wouldn’t have any troubleconveying his enthusiasm for the property, which was just as well, because he thought that the conditions of sale verged on eccentric. They’re little old ladies, he reminded himself. At their age, they’re entitled to be a little strange. They were certainly charming when he visited them, though, dishing out slices of homemade chocolate cake with pecans and fussing over him as if he were a visiting prince. He wanted to sell their house for them as swiftly and profitably as possible so that they could retire to their suburban nursing home carefree and financially secure. The transaction would do wonders for his financial position as well. If it hadn’t been for his bank’s overdraft protection plan, Bill could easily have been another of his partner’s bad-check cases.
    Mentally ticking off the bills he could pay with his five percent commission, Bill dialed the phone number on the message slip.
    Ten minutes later, in a considerably brighter mood, Bill placed another call, this one to Miss Flora Dabney at the Home for Confederate Women. By the time he heard her silvery voice on the other end of the line he was almost humming, his back problems and his parents’ strife neatly banished from his thoughts. “Miss Flora? This is Bill MacPherson, your attorney, and I have good news.”
    â€œHas someone responded to your ad? So soon?”
    â€œI just spoke to him and he’s very interested in the house. His name is John Huff. He lives in Connecticut, but he’d like to acquire a house in Virginia.”
    Flora Dabney did not seem overly thrilled by the news. After a brief pause she said, “Did you tell Mr. Huff our terms, Bill?”
    â€œCertified check? Yep. I explained that you wanted a quick sale, and that you didn’t want the transaction tied up in bank-loan red tape. Mr. Huff said that there wouldn’t be any problem about financing. I think he’s loaded. He’d like to fly down and view the house. Would Wednesday afternoon suit you, Miss Flora? I promised I’d call back and let him know.”
    After a protracted silence, Flora Dabney said, “I suppose Wednesday would be all right. Will you be available that afternoon, Bill?”
    â€œYes, of course,” said Bill, whose afternoons were usually spent doing crossword puzzles. “I thought I’d meet Mr. Huff at the airport and bring him out to the house. What time would you like us to arrive?”
    There was another longish pause at the other end of the telephone. “Bill,” Flora Dabney said at last, “we want you to show Mr. Huff the house. We’ll leave the key in the mailbox for you.”
    â€œYou want me—” Bill stared at the phone as if it had misquoted Flora Dabney.
    â€œYes. You show the house. We think thatwould be best. This house has been home to us for many years now, and naturally we feel a bit emotional about having to part with it, even though we have agreed that it’s for the best. Still, I don’t think any of us are up to the task of showing our beloved house to a stranger. Did he sound like a Northerner to you, Bill?”
    â€œI guess so,” said Bill, who hadn’t given the matter any thought until now. “But don’t you think you’d be