The doorbell rang.

It was the listing agent for Shirley’s house, wanting to know if the lights had been turned off last night; they were supposed to be.

Sadly, no, but we appreciated his efforts to get the word out, and–what’s this?!

He had gone to the local very good French bakery and had brought us a bag of pastries to try to ease the pain. They definitely lived up to the place’s reputation.

Best of all though is that after all the messages back and forth we got to actually meet and take the measure of each other and came away glad for it.

He had grown up friends with Shirley’s son. I thought, you really DO know the neighborhood. Cool.

He asked that I text him any time the lights were on and he would come and take care of it. He laughed when I said I hoped that wasn’t a long commute, which wasn’t quite an answer but I didn’t press him on it.

And as he probably hoped, I came away thinking that if I ever want to list my house, now I have the agent for it. Except that we’re not going anywhere, but thanks.

There is, in fact, a single big bulb still on right now of the five of them that shine directly in our windows, and there appears to be a mirror behind it for extra fun. But someone tried (they were all on during the day) and that is so much better than it’s been that I’m just going to let him take a well-deserved rest.