I called Martha the next morning.
“Is something wrong with the offer?” she asked.
“No. I need to know whether the Hendersons can close before Thursday.”
There was a pause while she checked her notes.
“They asked for flexibility,” she said. “They’re paying cash, and their attorney has already begun the title work. I can ask.”
“Please do.”
“Inz, are you all right?”
I looked toward the dining room. Mother’s china was back in the cabinet. I had washed the gravy from the chair cushion, but a pale mark remained.
“I will be,” I said.
Martha did not press me. She called again that afternoon. The Hendersons could close the following Wednesday, provided the remaining paperwork cleared.
For the first time since Thanksgiving, I had a date to move toward.
I still had to make certain I could reach it.
That afternoon, I took the fireproof box to an attorney named Ellen Price. Robert and I had used her office years earlier, though Ellen herself had since taken over the practice.
She read the power of attorney while I told her what I had heard in the study.
When I finished, she set down her pen.
“Have you signed anything since Robert died?”
“No.”
“Has Stuart used this document to act for you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“The form says his authority begins only if you meet its incapacity requirements,” she said. “You can revoke it now.”
