The clock on Jared’s offer was ticking and I–as the new owner–had to make the decision. When my father was finally resting under the black marble tomb my mother had ordered at the back of our French estate and the endless stream of visitors finally seemed to dry up, I decided to have a chat with her.

Lucy was out and my mother and I were sitting in the library, with some of the books from our house, and having a drink. After being married to my father for forty years, my mother never took up having scotch as her nightcap, but that evening she asked me to pour her some. She was holding the glass, smelling the aroma from time to time but never touching the drink itself.

“Now that you’re the owner, what are you going to do with the house?” my mother asked as if she had read my mind.

“That’s what I was going to talk with father and you about when I told you I was coming.”

“Out with it then,” she said and smelled the scotch in her hand.

“Well, I think I’m going to sell it. Do you remember the construction project I mentioned to you some time ago? Cottages for some well-off folks in the eastern part of the estate.”

“Your grandfather’s pig farm?”

“Yes. I want to build a small community there.”

I did not feel like sharing all the details of the deal with my mother; she wouldn’t have been interested anyway.

“As much I want to get rid of it, I still don’t understand why you’re selling the house. It’s at least a mile from there, isn’t it?”

“You see, Mother, I got a good offer for it. I’ll have some disposable cash for the project, and I have a few other things I’d like to invest in, like bitcoin and property. Besides, with your share, you won’t need to think about money for …” I stopped, not knowing how to end the sentence.

She smiled. “For the rest of my life?” She looked at me and put her hand on mine. “Mon cheri, I don’t want you to worry about me. Besides, I don’t think I have too many years left in me, and I will be following your father soon,” she said.

“Don’t say that.”

“Sell it!” she said and finally took a sip from her glass.

I looked at her reaction and admired the determination with which she swallowed the drink she hated. She wrinkled her face at the strength of the drink.

“Who’s buying it?” she said when she regained her composure.

“Jared Shannon,” I said, and I was about to tell her the whole story when she suddenly put her glass down.

“Susan’s son?”

“Do you remember him?”

She looked away for a minute, without saying anything, and then she gave a chuckle.

“Might as well. We reap what we sow, don’t we?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” she said and stood up. “I’m rather tired and I think I’ll go to bed now.”

She was on the way out of the library when she stopped and looked at me.

“You know, he sent a card with condolences and a big bouquet of flowers.”

“Who did? Jared?”

“Yes,” she said and left the library.

Mr. Goldberg was waiting for me outside Jared’s office building–as always, on his phone, checking latest developments in his small legal empire. He was wearing his body armor–a dark blue Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suit and a red silk tie by Dege & Skinner with a washed red snail design. He had a white custom-made shirt from the same shop. The fact wasn’t supposed to be known by outsiders since one of the oldest tailors on The Row kept their client list confidential. “Easy does it” was Mr. Goldberg’s motto and the snails were the reminder of it. He knew his threads well and I respected him for that even more than for his outstanding legal skills and knowledge.

I had expected his attire and wanted to match his style with a look from The Row myself with somewhat contemporary and sleek British style. I had my trusted Richard James double-breasted grey suit on with a pale blue cotton shirt. No tie. My feet were guarded by a pair of chukka boots in suede from the same shop. I was ready to sign the deal and start the project.

The last time we had seen each other had been at the funeral, and, outside the family, he was the first person I notified of my intention to sell the house. I didn’t think he was happy about that, but he was a professional and I was the owner and his client. The client was always right.

“Ready?” he asked, putting down his phone and shaking my hand.

“Let’s get it over with.”

When we went in, we were greeted by Jared’s assistant, an attractive young woman in black pants and a tight white blouse that complemented her upper torso rather nicely, who was waiting for us in the hall.

“The team is upstairs. Mr. Shannon might join us today as well,” she said.

Mr. Goldberg and I looked at each other. It wasn’t planned but wasn’t unexpected either. We had discussed the probability of that on the phone the day before, along with the content of the agreement we were supposed to sign today.