Madeline picked up the box and held it to her chest.

“Will you sell Blue Harbor?” she asked.

“I haven’t made up my mind.”

“He’d hate that.” She said it without any spite, which made it worse.

“Gregory, I mean.

He’d hate that you could sell it and he couldn’t.”

She carried the photographs over to my car and put them in the back seat herself.

Then she stood in the driveway with her arms crossed, small against the big white house.