Patrick’s Irish lilt was an immediate balm to her frazzled nerves. How endlessly good-natured he was, and how welcome his voice after the nastiness of dealing with Vivian.

“It’s me.” It had been a week since his mother had the serum injection, and she was out of the danger zone, but Dr. Haas continued documenting her recovery by the hour.

“Dr. Haas sent me down to the pharmacy to call you. He wants to know if you can send some of the medicinal tea leaves from your garden with one of the research students tomorrow.”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Excellent.”

“Don’t hang up yet,” she impulsively said. Patrick was trustworthy and good down to the marrow of his bones. Perhaps he could help. “I have a hypothetical legal question for you.”

“Let’s hear it,” he said agreeably.

“If a person’s last will and testament gave away something that he didn’t own—for example, if a man wanted to leave a house to someone, but the house was titled in his wife’s name—would the wife have a legal obligation to honor the will?”

“Ouch. That sounds ugly.”

“Indeed.” She traced a finger along the tiles. She couldn’t lose this house. She couldn’t.

“A person can’t give away something he doesn’t own,” Patrick said. “If he could, I’d like to give the Brooklyn Bridge to my ma, but the courts won’t honor it.”

Relief crashed down on her, releasing a flood of tension. It was exactly what she wanted to hear. She bent her head as tears threatened. It shouldn’t matter so much, but this house was the only paradise she ever wanted. A ragged breath escaped despite her best efforts.

“Mrs. K? Are you all right?”

She sniffled. “I’m all right.”

“Are we still speaking hypothetically?”

“Yes,” she managed to get out.

“And are you hypothetically crying?”

“Right again,” she said, this time with a little laughter mingled in. “There is a bit of stickiness around the ownership of my house, and it’s been weighing on me.” Her voice started shaking. “Quite badly, in fact.”

“Stay right there,” Patrick said. “I’m coming over. I can pick up the tea while I’m at it.”

She hung up the earpiece, feeling outlandishly happy at the thought of Patrick O’Neill’s impending arrival.

Mrs. O’Shea was with his mother, giving Patrick the freedom to see what was bothering Gwen. He couldn’t ignore the anguish in her voice. He would slay every dragon in her world if it would make her feel better.

It was dark by the time he arrived at her house. It was a nice one, but no fancier than the other houses on this tree-lined street bordering the campus of Blackstone College. The house was lit up both inside and out. It seemed foolish to waste electricity on a porch light, but rich people were odd.