From a deep pocket of his nasty chinos, he pulled out a folded wad of papers, blueprints, statistics. They concerned a certain property he believed he could get his hands on for the Register. Scraps of inspectors’ reports, Polaroids of glum interior details and, I believe, a matchbook from Sanitary Fish Market with room measurements jotted there amongst traces of Tabasco sauce. He told me: First, this home needs saving from the razing crews that have been instrumental in making so much of our state look like Ohio or anywhere dull else on earth. Then this home must be put up for sale, Tad explained. That particular day, he wisely assumed nothing (given my grieving state and likely appearance). He spelled it out: The house, once sold at subsidized prices, would be restored. “Not just pickled and ‘museumified’ but inhabited, returned to its function. Providing shelter, comfort, and incidental joy.” That’s a direct quote. Still, peeved, I sat there blinking.

Tad settled beside me at my own kitchen table. From his country doctor’s bag of a briefcase, he eased forth the sheaf of photographs he’d taken with his similarly paint-scarred Pentax. He said the house was called Sandover. Toward me, he then pushed a jotted list of people in the town where this ignored domestic masterpiece had stood since 1803. People who could help. “I just know you must know about three-quarters of the hard-drinking gentry down Little Washington way,” he tried flattering me back into life. I knew that trick well enough.

I told him I didn’t maintain contact with all that many people really. I also told Tad I’d just had kind of a shock, with George dying alone on the Neuse River, right after I had pronounced such fishing trips “a big fat bore.” I had made my husband go by himself to drift around alone in a deceased condition. It took the Coast Guard five long days to find our boat. I swear the wait nearly killed me. I said I needed time.

My own address book was buried under some Erle Stanley Gardners and the answering machine I’d just installed to fend off universal sympathy and gossipy well-wishers. There was a grand total of 21 unreturned phone calls flashing on the thing. One rumor I’d been allowed to overhear claimed that my late husband had been discovered face-up in our boat, features half consumed by seagulls (not true). Such tittle-tattle can challenge a person’s sense of dignity and value, not to mention shaking her accustomed social standing.