In a Hartford Courtroom, Grant Wanted the House Until a Little Purple Toy Started Playing
By half past ten that morning, a white sedan had pulled up at the curb beside the front mailbox.
Sarah Jenkins, a real estate agent carrying a green leather folder, got out onto the gravel driveway.
I met her at the bottom step of the wooden porch.
“It’s a beautiful colonial, Emily,” Sarah said, opening the folder to show three printed sheets of comparable sales.
“Four bedrooms in this neighborhood will sell inside twenty days.”
“I want the listing agreement signed and active by Monday morning,” I said, pressing my thumb to the inside of my wrist as I looked over the sheet.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” Sarah asked, looking up at the tall white shutters.
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