“Gerald went into town to look at some plastic pots,” she said, her voice a quiet, apologetic murmur.
She looked toward the empty driveway, then reached deep into her linen shoulder bag. She pulled out a long, white envelope and pressed it into my palm, her fingers cold.
“This came in the morning delivery while you were down at the lower pond,” Beatrice whispered, shutting the trunk lid with a soft thud. “I did not put it in the office pile.”
I looked down at the return address printed in dark blue ink. It was from the Marion County Zoning Board.
“Why would the zoning board be writing to us, Beatrice?” I asked.
“I have to get these catalogs to the post office before five,” she said, getting into the driver’s seat and pulling the door shut before I could ask anything else.
The post office on Main Street smelled of wet cardboard and floor wax. I stood at the high oak counter while the clerk, a young woman named Clara who had gone to school with my nephew, slid a pink slip across the wood.
