Cory took a deep breath and turned around. "You already own a lovely cottage, and I can't imagine you want to sell it, so I assume you're here about the community garden. Come on back to my office." It didn't surprise Helen that he knew where she lived. It was his business to keep track of that sort of thing, after all. She was a little surprised, however, that he didn't even try to convince her she needed a bigger and more expensive home. Helen followed him to the end of the hallway, past the picture window that looked into a small conference room. Inside Cory's office, three of the walls displayed pictures of half a dozen mansions—the real thing similar to the one that had been transformed into the Wharton Nursing Home, not cheap, modern knockoffs—that were presumably among his biggest sales. The remaining wall beside the doorway had been transformed into a massive, green-felt-lined rack to hold golf clubs. Two horizontal shelves ran the entire width of the wall, one at waist height and one near the ceiling, with slots cut into them for hanging the clubs.
