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

grey.

“Martha,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping to that low, soothing whisper that always made me prepare for the worst.

I wrung out the rag over the sink, the cold water stinging my stiff fingers. “The ovens are off, Beatrice, there is nothing to look at.”

“I know,” she whispered, pulling her hands from her pockets. She lifted her apron hem and began continue reading …