“I bought her favorite cake too,” I said. “The lemon one from the bakery on Main Street.”
Noah finally set his phone down on the chipped formica.
“She called me yesterday,” Noah said.
I stopped cutting the blue ribbon. “Clara called you?”
“She wants five thousand dollars,” Noah said. “She said her roof is leaking again.”
“Did you give it to her?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I told her to sell the Buick.”
My nineteen ninety-eight Buick LeSabre had a rusted bumper and a heater that only worked on high, but it was paid for. It was the only thing I owned that did not feel like a direct hand-me-down from Josh, our adoptive father who had passed away three years ago. Josh used to sit in his quiet wood-paneled study with his pipe resting on the desk edge, watching us play in the yard.
“She will be furious if I show up without the money,” I said.
