“I need you to sign for this one, Mrs. Miller,” Clara said, handing me a black ballpoint pen. “It came registered mail from the county.”
My thumb joint throbbed as I gripped the pen, but I managed to sign my name on the thin carbon line. Clara retreated to the back room and returned with a thick, yellow-striped envelope.
“Is everything all right out at the nursery?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the counter. “My dad said he saw some surveyors near your north boundary line last Tuesday.”
“The county must have made a mistake with these boundaries,” I said.
I took the envelope and walked out to my truck, the heavy paper crinkling in my hands.
By six, the rain had started, a steady drizzle that streaked the glass of the main house sunroom. I sat at the wicker table beneath the single floor lamp, the house completely silent around me. I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out my silver-plated magnifying glass, the heavy handle cool against my palm.
