T Is for Trespass

According to the note she’d left, she’d gone in search of a coffee shop and expected to be back by 9:00. She offered to buy me dinner if I was free that night, which as it happened, I was.
    I left for the office at 8:35 that morning and I didn’t see her again for six days. So much for dinner.

9
    Late Saturday afternoon, I joined Henry and Charlotte for the tree-trimming festivities. I declined the eggnog, which I knew contained a stunning quantity of calories, not to mention fat and cholesterol. Henry’s recipe called for a cup of superfine sugar, a quart of milk, twelve large eggs, and two cups of whipping cream. He’d made a non-alcoholic version, which allowed his guests to add bourbon or brandy to taste. By the time I arrived, the Christmas-tree lights had been threaded through the branches, and Rosie had already been there and gone. She’d accepted a cup of eggnog and then she’d left for the restaurant, as her dictatorial presence was required in the kitchen.
    Henry, William, Charlotte, and I unwrapped and admired the ornaments, most of which had been in Henry’s family for years. Once the tree was trimmed, William and Henry had their annual argument about how to apply tinsel. William was of the one-strand-at-a-time method, and Henry thought the effect was more natural if the tinsel was tossed and allowed to form picturesque clumps. They settled on a little bit of both.
    At 8:00 we walked the half block to Rosie’s. William went to work behind the bar, which left the table to Henry, Charlotte, and me.
    I hadn’t paid attention to how much either had had to drink, which may or may not explain what followed. The menu that night was the usual strange assortment of Hungarian dishes, many of which Rosie had determined in advance would be our free choice for the occasion.
    While we waited for the first course, I turned to Henry. “I saw lights on at Gus’s so I’m assuming you and Melanie connected this morning after I left for work.”
    “We did and I found her most forceful and effective. She’s accustomed to dealing with the hassles of life in New York so she knows how to get things done. We were at Rolling Hills by nine fifteen. Of course, there was no sign of the attending physician and no way to get Gus released without the doctor’s official sanction. Somehow Melanie managed to hunt him down and get his signature on the form. She orchestrated the process with such efficiency, we had Gus out of there and back at his place by eleven ten.”
    “She found a place to stay?”
    “She checked into the Wharfside on Cabana. She also did the grocery shopping and ordered a wheelchair from a rental company. She had it delivered and was out pushing Gus around the neighborhood this afternoon. The attention worked wonders. He was really quite nice.”
    I was about to make a comment in response, when Charlotte spoke up. “Who built that row of houses on your block? They seem very much alike.”
    Henry turned and looked at her, faintly disconcerted by the change in subject. “Not so. My house and Gus’s are direct images of one another, but the house just past the vacant lot and Moza Lowenstein’s place, which is one more door down, have a very different feel. They might have been constructed around the same time, but with the changes people have made in the intervening years, it’s hard to tell what the original floor plans were like.”
    Henry and I exchanged a quick look that Charlotte didn’t catch. Sure enough, she’d steered the conversation around to real estate. I hoped her question was idle, but she was apparently pursuing a train of thought.
    “I take it none of them were designed by a name architect?”
    “Not that I know. Over the years, a series of builders bought up the lots and threw together whatever was easy and cheap. What makes you ask?”
    “I was thinking about the restrictions on houses over fifty years old. If a house has no historical significance, a buyer would be free to demolish the structure and build something new. Otherwise, you’re more or less limited to the footprint, which reduces the potential.”
    “Why is that relevant? None of my neighbors have expressed any interest in selling.”
    She frowned. “I understand there hasn’t been much turnover, but given the advanced ages of home owners in the area, some of these houses are bound to come up for sale—Gus’s being a case in point.”
    “And?”
    “What will happen when he dies? Melanie won’t have the