These were the thoughts that preoccupied me as I sat in my car across the street from my father’s house—his former house, I should say, recently vacated. A woman was emerging from the front door holding a single balloon. She moved briskly down the path to tie it to the FOR SALE sign that sat like a grounded white bird on the lawn. The real estate agent, I thought, as she straightened up and, turning her back to me, looked up at the house.

And why hadn’t he—my father—wanted to live on campus? The house before me was a blue two-story affair of no particular style, with white trim and a shingled roof. It was at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, deserted at this midday hour. I watched as the real estate agent adjusted her skirt, squared her shoulders, and went back up the pathway and closed the front door behind her. My father had been enjoying his third marriage when he died, and he had lived in this house with his young family.

I crossed the street, walked up the path, and rang the doorbell. Through the pane of frosted glass in the front door I could see the figure of the real estate agent advancing, and I felt a tingle of anticipation. This was all about to begin, I thought, as the door swung open and we were suddenly face-to-face. What had that horoscope said again? You will find yourself uniquely positioned to set things in motion? We shook hands, and she introduced herself as Sharon.

“If you wouldn’t mind stepping onto this,” she said, pointing to a white paper doormat that lay inside the threshold. It was printed in blue with the outlines of two footprints. “They just refinished the floors.”

It was true, I thought, as I stepped carefully on, then off the paper mat, that the floors looked waxy and bright. There was cream-colored carpet on the stairs and a second-story landing, and that, too, looked freshly cleaned. In general, I thought, looking around me, the house had the appearance of having been polished within an inch of its life.

“Well,” said Sharon. “Shall we start upstairs?”

Without waiting for an answer, she began to climb the steps that curved up from the foyer to the second floor. She was older than I had expected; her youthful figure, as I’d seen it from the window of my car, had been deceptive. Up close, she was near my own age.

Another detail of note, I thought, as I followed her up the stairs, was that a strong scent of cinnamon had just been sprayed everywhere; with every other breath I caught another dose of it. This was disappointing; there was no connection between my father and a smell like that.

“Four bedrooms,” Sharon was saying. “Three up, one down.”

She cast a backward glance in my direction. “The previous owners used the downstairs bedroom as a study.”