Sycamore Row - John Grisham

“I’m always sober in the morning. It’s ten at night when I run into trouble.”
“Keep in touch.”
“You got it, Jake. Don’t worry.”
They dropped off Hanna at Jake’s parents in Karaway and drove an hour to Oxford,
where they drove through the Ole Miss campus and soaked in the sights and memories
of another lifetime. It was a warm, clear spring day, and the students were out in shorts
and bare feet. They slung Frisbees across The Grove, sneaked beer from coolers, and
soaked up the sun as it was disappearing. Jake was thirty-five, Carla thirty-one, and
their college days seemed so recent, yet so long ago.
A walk through campus always triggered a wave of nostalgia. And disbelief. Were
they really in their thirties? It seemed like they were students just last month. Jake
avoided walking near the law school—that nightmare was not distant enough. At dusk
they drove to the Oxford square and parked by the courthouse. They browsed for an
hour in the bookstore, had a coffee on the balcony upstairs, then went to dinner at the
Downtown Grill, the most expensive restaurant within eighty miles. With money to
burn, Jake ordered a bottle of Bordeaux—sixty bucks.
Returning, at almost midnight, they took their customary turns and slowly drove by
the Hocutt House. Some of its lights were on, and the grand old place beckoned them.
Parked in the driveway was Willie Traynor’s Spitfire with Tennessee plates. Still a bit
loose from the wine, Jake said, “Let’s check on Willie.”
“No, Jake! It’s too late,” Carla protested.
“Come on. Willie won’t care.” He’d stopped the Saab and was shifting into reverse.
“Jake, this is so rude.”
“For anyone else, yes, but not for Willie. Plus he wants us to buy this place.” Jake
parked behind the Spitfire.
“What if he has company?”
“Now he has more. Let’s go.”
Carla reluctantly got out. They paused for a second on the narrow sidewalk and took
in the sweeping front porch. The air was rife with the fragrant aromas of tree peonies
and irises. Pink and white azaleas burst forth from the flower beds.
“I say we buy it,” Jake said.
“We can’t afford it,” she replied.
“No, but the bank can.”
They stepped onto the porch, rang the bell, and heard Billie Holiday in the
background. Willie eventually came to the door, in jeans and a T-shirt, and pulled it
open with a big smile. “Well, well,” he said, “if it’s not the new owners.”
“We were just in the neighborhood and wanted a drink,” Jake said.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” Carla said, somewhat embarrassed.
“Not at all. Come in, come in,” Willie insisted as he waved them in. They went to the
front parlor where he had a bottle of white wine on ice. It was almost empty, and he