The copy of the waiver cost me a dollar and rode home in my bag.

Victoria was standing on the porch when I got there, her coat buttoned to the chin and a tape measure in her hand.

She had the metal tip hooked on the clapboard and was walking the tape along the trim.

“Twenty-two feet,” she said.

“I would have sworn it was wider than that.”

“The trim needs painting,” I said.

She jotted the number on the back of an envelope.

“The facade, honey.