Lamar Canfield drawled, his dark eyes wandering back and forth between the people who had summoned him to Chanson du Terre at such an unseemly hour of the morning. Young people had no sense of propriety. In the days when manners had still been in vogue, no one would have dreamed of calling on a person before nine o'clock. He stared at the young woman seated behind Gifford Sheridan's massive cherry desk. She looked cool and composed in a forest-green suit with simple straight lines and a champagne silk blouse. There was a single strand of pearls at her throat. Her honey-blond hair was neatly contained at the back in a French twist. Her mouth lifted at the corners in a placid smile, but she twisted the large topaz ring she wore around and around on her finger, giving away her inner tension. “It's really quite simple, Mr. Canfield,” she said with deliberate calm. “As you know, Gifford has granted me power of attorney. I am to settle this matter as I see fit. Now, I have examined all the options and taken into consideration all factors, and the only logical, practical conclusion is to sell the property to Mr.
