It was a new world. The thought of Mitchell with a to-do list tacked to the refrigerator—and though I’d never been in their house, considering what I knew about Bianca, I was sure it was a shiny stainless-steel version—made my heart laugh and sing.

“With a house there are always things to do,” I said. “How old is your place?”

Mitchell launched into a history of the home where he and Bianca lived. “When Bee bought it a few years ago, she originally thought it was built right before the Great Depression. You know where it is, right, up the hill? But the foundation block work told me it was a lot older, so I started to look into it.”

He talked on and on about the title documents he’d pored through, how helpful the staff at the county’s Register of Deeds office and Construction Code Department had been, and how he’d put together a timeline of the property starting with its original purchase in 1871.

I started to lose interest during his description of 1893’s second purchaser, and valiantly tried to feign interest through the early 1900s, but when he got to the part about scoring a copy of the 1973 building permit for a new garage, I’d had enough.

“That’s great,” I said. “And one of these days I’d love to hear more.” Not that I was going to whip out my phone to schedule an appointment, of course. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have a good—”

“Wait a minute, will you?”

I stared at him. Mitchell had sounded a little . . . panicky. Mitchell was never stressed. Ever. Whatever was making him anxious had to be serious. “Sure. What’s up?” I asked, preparing myself to hear about someone’s terminal diagnosis. Or maybe the toy store’s owner was closing it down and Mitchell needed a new job. Or maybe, just maybe, Bianca was pregnant and Mitchell was freaking out about becoming a father.

“It’s about . . . about . . .” He sighed. “You’re smart, right? You have lots of college degrees and stuff.”

“Don’t confuse education with intelligence,” I said.

“What? Oh, yeah. No, I get what you mean. Still, you know lots of stuff and I . . .” He scuffed his feet again. And again. “What are you doing for a retirement plan?”

I blinked. He couldn’t possibly have said what I thought he’d said. “You’re asking me for retirement advice?”

“Well, yeah. We’re about the same age, and you’re smart, so I figure I should probably do what you’re doing.”