mugs of tea, her apron strings tied in a neat bow at her waist.
“Your grandmother used to say that some people are like annuals,” Carol said, handing Ivy a mug. “They only have enough strength for one season, and then they dry up.”
Ivy held the warm ceramic, looking at the gray sky.
“Why do they never call, Carol?”
Carol smoothed her apron, her eyes reflecting continue reading …
