“I am waiting by the register,” Benjamin said.
Clara followed him out to the car, holding the piece of metal tightly inside her coat pocket.
By eleven o’clock, the metal cutter was back on Clara’s kitchen counter, surrounded by a dozen traditional shapes. There was a perfect five-pointed star, a gingerbread man, and a symmetrical pine tree, all of them dull with the gray patina of age.
Dorothy adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses, leaning close to the counter. “That green plastic recipe box looks very clean, Clara.”
“It was in the storage closet,” Clara said, lining up the tin star next to the lopsided shape.
Dorothy picked up the green box, turning it slowly. “It has no dust. Your old tin had a scratch on the hinge.”
Clara looked up from the counter. Her old recipe box had been a battered metal tin with faded red cherries painted on the lid, a gift from her mother. She had assumed Grace found this green plastic one in the attic during the spring move.
“Every other piece in this tin makes perfect sense except this one,” Clara said, pointing to the lopsided steel.
