Mrs. Ketchem folded her arms over her chest. “They certainly taught you well in law school, didn’t they? Never use one word when fifteen will do. You’re telling me the aldermen think taking the old heap off my hands will cost them more than it’s worth.”

He flushed, but held himself to a mild “That’s correct” in response. He reminded himself-as his father and uncle were fond of doing-that the firm had seen a sharp decline in revenues after the Howland Paper Mill closed two years ago. Every client is a valuable client, the old coots would say. Of course, if they would listen to some of his suggestions to lift their Dickensian practice into the atomic age, they might realize more profit.

Mrs. Ketchem was sitting silently, her gaze unfocused and her graying eyebrows bunched together as she plotted God knew what. If he was honest with himself, which he prided himself on, he had to admit she made him uncomfortable. She was decked out like all the other ladies of her age-in an out-of-date floral frock, summer gloves and hat on his desk-and she spoke with the same clipped-off drawl that identified every farm family from the hills around Cossayuharie. But she wasn’t the same. He could always charm a smile out of the crankiest old lady or put a man at ease who had never worn a suit save for one borrowed for his wedding. Not Mrs. Ketchem. Meeting with her was like taking an oral exam from his stone-faced contracts professor. If his professor had been wearing a dress and sensible shoes.

Norman waited. Finally she unfolded her arms and leaned forward. “I want you to go to the board and tell them, along with the Ketchem house, I’ll give them the farm in Cossayuharie. They can either run it as my in-laws did, as tenant property, or sell it outright. It’s a rich farm with a good herd, productive. It’ll generate more than enough money to pay for the roofing and painting and whatnot that the house in town will need year to year.”