“That was the distributor in Jacksonville,” he said, turning back with a quick, tight smile that did not reach his eyes. “A gallon of organic fertilizer is costing forty-two dollars now, Martha. We have to watch every penny.”
“That seemed like a long talk for a delivery order,” I said, setting the watering can on the wooden bench.
“Just firming up the logistics,” he said, already moving toward the glass double doors. “We have to keep the supply chain moving or we will lose our position in the market.”
He slipped his phone into his pocket, but it vibrated again before his hand left the fabric. He did not answer it this time.
By three in the afternoon, the clouds had turned the color of wet slate. I walked toward the main house and found Beatrice at the back of her silver sedan, stacking heavy stacks of the new autumn nursery catalogs into the trunk. Her hand went to her throat, her fingers adjusting the small pearl necklace she always wore when she was anxious.
