Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

work the soil,” I said.

He finally looked at me, and I saw the genuine, unvarnished terror in his eyes.

“You dropped the trowel three times on Tuesday, Martha,” he said.

“And today you could not even open the honey,” he added. “I cannot watch you break yourself.”

He reached out and placed the brochure on the coffee table between us.

The color pictures of continue reading …