I folded the certified deed map along its old creases and slid it into my brown paper desk folder.

At eleven o’clock the sharp rattle of gravel announced Harry Caldwell’s custom gas-powered golf cart pulling up at the foot of my driveway.

The cart was painted dark navy with shiny chrome trim along the footrests, and the little engine gave off a heavy metal shudder as Harry shut off the ignition.

He stepped down off the leather seat carrying a big wicker basket wrapped in clear cellophane, stuffed with green pears, fancy crackers, two round wheels of smoked cheese, and a jar of clover honey.

A wide, relaxed smile spread across his face, showing clean white teeth that hadn’t been on display during his last loud visit to my front porch.