Chapter 7
We walked the property for forty minutes.
I showed him the dock, the retaining wall, the covered deck where the view of the lake was clearest in the late morning light.
He asked careful questions about the roof age, the well system, the propane setup.
He crouched to look at the base of the retaining wall and nodded slowly.
He didn't ask about the guests.
He didn't ask about the folder under my arm.
He was either very polite or very practiced at focusing on what mattered.
When we came back around to the front of the house, he stopped and looked up at the roofline.
"It's a good property," he said.
"Honest bones."
"It is," I agreed.
"I'd like to submit an offer this week, if that's still your intention."
"It is absolutely still my intention."
He shook my hand again, got into his SUV, and drove slowly down the mountain road.
I watched until his car disappeared around the first bend in the pines.
Then I went back inside.
Most of the guests were gone.
Two remained — the woman who had been photographing the lake, now sitting at the kitchen table with her coat on, and a man I assumed was her husband, loading the last of their things into a bag near the door.
They both looked at me with the particular expression of people who had paid for something and were no longer certain they should have.
"I'm sorry," the woman said quietly.
"We found the listing on a vacation rental site.
It looked completely legitimate."
"I know," I said.
"That isn't your fault."
They left without another word.
Richard was still there.
He was standing at the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, a half-empty glass of water in front of him, waiting.
He had the look of a man who had spent the last forty minutes preparing a speech.
"Sit down," I said.
"I'd rather stand."
May you like
"I wasn't asking."
He pulled out a stool and sat.
