Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

of his cologne in the small, warm office.

“Think about the offer, Martha,” he said.

I did not answer him, keeping my hand pressed firmly over the signature on the yellow pad.

By one in the afternoon, the heat of the day had settled into the kitchen, and Donald was sitting at the table with a half-eaten ham sandwich.

He was polishing his spectacles with continue reading …