Three Sisters Divided Over a Limestone Bakery Built in Nineteen Sixty-Eight

morning waiting for the sun to touch the maple trees in my yard.

At eight, Arthur, my retired accountant friend, arrived with a battered leather briefcase under his arm. He did not ask how I was doing, which was exactly why I had called him instead of Beatrice.

He sat on my living room sofa and immediately spread three manila folders across the coffee continue reading …