Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

He did not look up immediately, but his fingers tightened on the edge of the paper.

“Robert left it,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It is for the Oak Creek Manor.”

I knew the place, a brick compound over by the old reservoir with manicured lawns and high fences.

“Donald, I am sixty-four, not ninety, and these hands can still continue reading …