Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

when he saw his brother, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

“Well now, Robert, you are up early for a man who does not usually care for the smell of fertilizer,” I said, keeping my hands flat against my apron to hide the split on my index nail.

Robert did not look at the plants. He looked directly at Donald, his heavy gold signet ring catching the continue reading …