“Oh, I couldn’t put you out.”

“Nonsense.”

Before she goes, she gives me a look—and if you are the daughter of a mother, you’ll know what look I mean. A knowing smile budding behind her lips, like that of a cat on the prowl, suggests a shared recognition of the attractiveness of a potential mate for her young. I keep my face blank and give my head one slow shake, wondering what she could possibly be thinking.

Now I am alone with the Jehovah’s Witness, standing with my arms crossed while he sits adjusting his glasses and clearing his throat several times over.

“May I ask you something?” he says. I’m of a mind to tell him no, but he doesn’t wait for my response to ask, “How long have you lived in this fine old house?”

“All my life,” I reply, surprised. Anyone in town would know that, after all.

Instead of recoiling in distaste, he smiles eagerly. “Well, it’s certainly got character. A place like this, you ought to have your own historical society. Maybe a museum, give tours. Or a bed-and-breakfast! You ever think about that sort of thing?”

“And invite a bunch of strangers into our home?” My voice is filled with disgust, horror. “Why would anyone want to see a rotten old place like this, anyway?”

His eyes flicker around the room, and on his face is a hungry grin. “I bet you could make a pretty penny, enough for some renovations, at least, to restore this place to its former glory.”

My hands find my hips. “What gives you the right?”

“Now, don’t pitch a fit,” he says benevolently, and I’d like to slap him. “It was only a suggestion.”

“Well, it’s a bad one.” I lower my voice, keeping my ears attuned for the squeal of the kettle. “My mother would hate that. She doesn’t need hucksters filling her head with stupid ideas. We don’t need whatever you’re selling.”

“You’re a delight, you know that?” He sits back, fiddling with the strap of his camera, looking anywhere but at me. “And I’m not selling anything.”

“Tea,” Agnes announces, coming in with two mugs. One she hands to the man, and the other she wraps in her hands to warm them.

“You didn’t bring me any?” I ask.

“You can very well get it yourself, Sam. This man’s company.” She looks at him as he holds the mug, waiting for him to breathe in the lavender scent of the Earl Grey. “And we treat our company right around here. Besides, I’m always interested in having spiritual folks come around.” She smiles, showing her teeth. I wonder if she was listening to our conversation from the kitchen.

Nathaniel leans over the steaming mug, and his glasses turn white and opaque. When he lifts his head, I can no longer see his eyes; he simply gazes out from two white disks.

“So, Nathaniel,” says Agnes, as she takes a seat at the adjacent sofa. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”