“She seems to have a different way of looking at property,” I said, thinking of the bright blue paint covering what had once been my late husband’s favorite garden ornament.
“She takes what she wants and figures we are too old to do anything about it,” Frank said. He spat into a plastic cup sitting on the small table beside his chair.
His words lingered in the cool air between us, a quiet warning that made me check my gold wristwatch. It was exactly eleven minutes past eleven. I bid Frank goodbye and walked back across the road, intending to clear my head by doing some yard work.
Our old silver maple had dropped its first thick blanket of yellow leaves, and I wanted to get the lawn mown before the afternoon rain started. I unlocked the side door of my detached garage and stepped into the cool, dark space that still smelled of motor oil and dry pine.
I walked past the stacked garden rakes to the corner where my vintage metal lawnmower was always stored. The yellow steel deck of that machine had been kept spotless for twenty-four years, first by my husband, Robert, and then by me.
