I took the unsigned legal packet back to the little nightstand by the bed and set the white pages flat on the wood, right next to my husband Harold’s blue ceramic mug.

Arthur Vance unscrewed his fountain pen cap three exact turns and placed the metal cap beside his legal ledger.

“The paperwork for your living trust is finished,” he said in his low, even voice.

“We’re ready to submit the purchase agreement.”

He slid a thick paper folder across the mahogany desk.

Inside was the draft purchase contract for seven hundred forty thousand dollars, drawn up in the name of a private revocable living trust.

“Seven hundred forty thousand,” I said, reading the number on the second page.