Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

handle. “I have to think about the future.”

He walked out of the kitchen, his boots heavy on the linoleum.

I found Robert sitting in the wicker chair in the sunroom at eight, his legal pad resting on his knee. The small vintage fan on the side table was still, its black blades catching the dim light from the floor lamp.

“Martha,” Robert continue reading …