He enjoys standing quietly with a house before his clients arrive, and today, although he feels pinned beneath an invisible weight, he resolves to savor this solitary moment. It’s one of those overhauled ranches so common to Old Cranbury these days, swollen and dressed to resemble a colonial. White, of course, with ornamental shutters and latches pretending to hold them open. A close echo of its renovated sisters on Whistle Hill Road, garnished with hostas and glitzed with azaleas. He has seen too many of these to count, but today he feels newly affronted. He begins with the property. The front grade of this particular address slopes gently away from the structure, ideal from a topographical standpoint. There are no real trees to speak of, only snug rows of adolescent pines at either side of the property, screening the house from its neighbors in the most neighborly possible way. He strides slowly up the front path in his work boots, noting the fine condition of the brick pavers, flush to the ground with just the slightest efflorescence.
