My hand tightened around the stems of the lilies until the green stalks bruised.
“She loved them, Clara,” Ruth said. “She wrote those letters. You still have them in the study.”
“The letters do not matter,” Clara said. “The legal limit is December first. Once that date passes, the account is closed forever, and they will never know the difference.”
I stood in the shadow of the hallway, holding the lilies as my childhood fell apart.
I backed out of the shadow of the porch, my boots crunching soft on the gray gravel of Clara’s driveway. The air tasted of coal smoke from a neighbor’s chimney, a bitter Indiana autumn settling over the small roofs of Maple Street.
I did not look back at the kitchen window where the two women were sitting. My fingers felt numb inside my jacket pockets, my skin still carrying the floral scent of the green paper wrapping from the flower shop.
