The blue plastic folder sat on the laminate counter right next to the sugar bowl.
Arthur did not touch his coffee. He kept his palms flat on the form, his fingers spread wide, covering the signature lines at the bottom of the page.
“We need to make some decisions about the nursery land, Clara.”
His voice was very quiet, the way he spoke when he wanted to sound like the only reasonable person in the room.
I poured the hot water into our three-dollar blue plastic pitcher instead of a pot, watching the steam rise against the cold windowpane. The glass was misted with the damp autumn air of Oconee County, and three miles away, the steady hum of the highway sounded like a faucet left running.
“My father left that acreage to me,” I said.
My thumb went to my silver wedding band, tracing the cheap edge of the metal. It had cost sixty dollars at the jeweler next to the pharmacy, and the band was already thin enough to bend if I squeezed my hand too tight.
“It is all one household now,” Arthur said. He adjusted his heavy leather belt, pulling the buckle a fraction of an inch to the left. “The deed needs to reflect that. It makes everything simpler for the bank.”
“The bank does not hold a lien on my father’s land,” I said.
He did not argue. He only smoothed the blue folder down with the side of his hand, leaving a faint crease across the top sheet.
The silence lasted until the kettle finished its last hiss on the stove.
By noon, the clouds had broken just enough to let a pale, cold light through the pecan trees in the backyard. I carried the heavy wicker basket of wet sheets out to the clothesline, my boots sinking slightly into the soft, red Georgia clay.
Ruth sat on the bottom step of the back porch, her apron pulled tight over her knees. She had a basket of green beans in her lap, but she was not snapping them.
“Arthur says you were stubborn this morning,” Ruth said.
