I didn’t say no. I didn’t. But a look must have passed over my face. Wouldn’t a look have passed over yours? Dropping by . . . ​well, maybe. But spending “a day or two”? “In the guest room”? Did he mean my guest room or theirs? The room they had designated or the one I soon would—­

It was one too many, somehow.

Then I thought: He won’t take me up on it once he’s out; he’s just talking, to be comforted.

Recovering my manners, I said yes, of course he would be welcome, they would, always welcome, anytime at all.

But now there was a look on his face.

Anytime at all, I said. Truly.

He gave me a pat on the back, said we’d see how things went, made a vague, despairing gesture at my car, as in: There it is, you know where it is, off you go.

I thought: Too bad. But, then again, where is it written we have to be friends?

I sat in the car awhile, looking up at the house, already loving it more than I’d ever loved any place in my life.

I called Jordan, had her make the full-price offer, plus ten percent. Next morning, she called back, mystified. It seemed he’d changed his mind. About selling. It was the oddest thing, she said. No way he could afford to keep the place. His agent said the same. Together, they were trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong. Hays was on a tiny pension, his wife was dying, there were medical bills, the house had been on the market for two years, mine was the first offer.

Did you say something? she asked. Do something?

He said he sometimes might want to come and stay over, I said. Like, overnight. And I just, you know, hesitated.

That’s weird, she said. I mean, sounds like you were well within your rights.

I think so, I said. I didn’t say no. I just . . .

And that did it? she said. Wow.

We went back, offered more, then more, until, finally, we were offering more than a third again above his original asking price.

But it was still a no.