Three Bags of Cashews and a Dishonest Sister In Law at the Wedding

off the northern ridge this time of year. He cleared his throat twice before he spoke.

“Martha,” he said, his voice falling into that hesitant mumble I had heard since we were children. “I wanted to bring you the extra folding chairs from our basement for the reception.”

“Come on inside, Donald,” I said, stepping back from the door to let him pass.