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Harlow looked about. “I wonder what he would have done in a blackout?”

As Maxon opened the closet and slipped into his overcoat he said, “Why, nothing. Should the power fail, the lights switch over to backup batteries; then the generator in the garage takes over.”

“Oh.” Harlow saw Maxon to the door. As the lawyer stepped outside and into the snowy November night, Harlow asked, “By the way, how did he die?”

“His heart gave out. The housekeeper, she found him in the recreation room; he’d been watching TV, it seems.”

Harlow jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In that glare?”

Maxon turned up a hand.

“Hmm,” mused Harlow. “Regardless. Too bad I didn’t know him. Perhaps I would have liked him.”

“Perhaps you would have at that. He’s buried out back in the family plot.” Maxon looked at his watch. “Well, I’m due elsewhere. I’ll drop in tomorrow night and we’ll go over the assets and set up your bank and brokerage accounts, among other things.”

“Uhh, can’t we take care of it in the daylight, rather than in this glare?”

“I’m sorry, Harlow, I’m simply not available until tomorrow evening.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. Then tomorrow night it is. Any special time?”

“Shall we say eight?”

“Fine by me.”

“Oh,” said Maxon, fishing about under his coat, “these are yours.” He handed the keys to Harlow. Then: “Well, I’m gone. Have a nice night.”

“But wait, how will you get to wherever you’re going?”

“It isn’t far, and I need the exercise,” replied Maxon.

Harlow watched as the lawyer trudged down the drive, and in spite of the moonlight, the man seemed to fade into the shadows. When he could see him no more, Harlow closed the door and stepped into well-lighted rooms.

Over the next three days, Harlow explored the house and property—fifty-four acres in all—discovering the family graveyard, finding the remains of an old cabin in a grove of trees to the north, briefly sitting in the snow-laden gazebo and surveying his new world. During it all he pondered his future. For the first time in his life, Harlow had money. Oh, not that he had been a vagrant before, but instead he had been a man with little to his name, not even relatives—no mother, no father, no foster parents—rather he had been raised, if you could call it that, in an orphanage. Yet now all that was changed: he had had kinfolk, kinfolk he never knew yet kinfolk nevertheless, kindred buried on these very grounds in a rather large family plot, many of the gravestones undated and without names. Regardless, thanks to one of these kindred, a heretofore unknown great-uncle, now he had money to spend. He was twenty-five and fairly rich and all he had to do was live in this splendid house … or it would be splendid as soon as he got rid of the glare, for he had decided that he would take up Maxon’s suggestion and turn this house back into a place of elegant comfort. After that was done, he would then consider taking on a job, or perhaps a career, though Maxon had said he would never have to work again.

He hired a housekeeper and a cook, but they refused to stay in the place at night, saying that there was too much light. But Harlow suspected there was more to it than that, for often he saw the two women whispering together, and the cook, a Hispanic lady, repeatedly crossed herself.

Employing electricians and cabinetmakers and a decorator full-time, it took nearly three months for Harlow to turn the house into a normal one: the light panels were eliminated, walls and ceilings repaired and painted, normal switches and wall sockets installed, the harsh light replaced by elegant soft-glowing lamps; glass cabinetry was replaced by oak; the dreadful clear plastic furniture and utensils and dishes and other such, Harlow gave to Goodwill, items of good taste and comfort taking their place; too, he had the car restored to a normal vehicle: the glaring interior lights were removed, and the batteries and their charger were taken from the trunk. The only holdover Harlow kept was the Honda generator, for one never