“He wrote that in his nineteen ninety-six journal,” I said.

“Page forty-two.”

Pembroke handed me the silver pen without a word.

I signed my name beside his, pressing the tip hard into the paper until the blue ink sank dark into the weave.

“What will you do with the main house?” Pembroke asked, taking the signed copy and closing his folder.

“I’m living in it,” I said.

“The roof needs two rows of shingles over the east gable, and the dock boards need a seal coat before the first frost.”

Pembroke nodded slowly, squinting one eye as he straightened his coat.