Sycamore Row - John Grisham

might just know how to throw one. The biggest draw was the house. For years they had
admired it from the street but had never managed to get inside.
“There’s a rumor he wants to sell it,” Jake said as they were discussing the invitation.
He had not told his wife about the earlier conversation with Harry Rex, mainly because
the price, whatever it happened to be, was far out of their range.
“That rumor has been around, hasn’t it?” she replied, and from that moment on began
dreaming about the house.
“Yes, but Harry Rex says Willie is serious now. He never stays there.”
They were the first to arrive, fashionably late at ten minutes after, and Willie was all
alone. His holiday attire included a red bow tie, black satin dinner jacket, and some
modification of Scottish kilts. He was in his early forties, handsome with long hair and a
graying beard, and perfectly charming, especially to Carla. Jake had to admit to some
level of envy. Willie was only a few years older yet he had already made a million
bucks. He was single, known to enjoy the ladies, and gave the impression of a man
who’d been around the world.
He poured champagne into heavy, crystal flutes, offered a holiday toast, and after the
first sip said with a smile, “I want to tell you something,” as if they were family and
important news had arrived.
He went on, “I have decided to sell this house. I’ve owned it for sixteen years, and I
love the place, but I’m simply not here enough. It needs real owners, people who will
treasure it, preserve it, and keep it just like it is.” Another sip as Jake and Carla hung in
midair. “And I’m not selling to just anyone. No realtor is involved. I’d like to avoid
putting it on the market. I don’t want the town talking about it.”
Jake couldn’t suppress a chuckle at this. The town was already talking.
“Okay, okay, there are no secrets around here, but folks don’t have to know what we
discuss. I would love for you two to have it. I actually saw your other house before it
was destroyed, and I admire the way you restored it.”
“Cut the price and we’re in,” Jake said.
Willie looked at Carla’s soft brown eyes and said, “This place has your name written
all over it.”
“How much?” Jake asked. His spine stiffened and he vowed not to flinch when the
figure was revealed.
“Two fifty,” Willie said without hesitation. “I paid a hundred for it in 1972, then spent
a hundred more fixing it up. Same house in midtown Memphis would push a million, but
then that’s a long way off. At two fifty it’s a steal, but you can’t ignore the market. If I
advertised it for half a million it would sit here until the weeds took over. Frankly, I’d
just like to get my money back.”
Jake and Carla exchanged blank stares because there was nothing to say, not at that
moment. Willie, ever the salesman, said, “Let’s look around. The others get here at six
thirty.” He topped off their flutes and they headed for the front porch. Once the tour
commenced, Jake knew there was no turning back.
According to Willie, the house was built around 1900 by Dr. Miles Hocutt, the town’s
leading physician for decades. It was a classic Victorian, with two high-gabled roofs, a