Trent gave a short nod, turned on his heel, and walked slowly back up the pavement toward his house.

“He wasn’t looking at the lilacs, Dad,” Emily said, turning her head as Trent reached his driveway gates.

“No,” I said.

“He was taking measurements for his father.”

At six o’clock I sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of water poured from my stainless steel bottle and Harry’s three-page contract.

The evening sun came in at a slant through the window, laying a long rectangle of light across the dark oak.

I spread the contract out under the overhead light and turned the pages slowly.