Arthur’s mother was down at the county registry last Tuesday,” George said. “She was asking about the valuation on your timber tract.”
I kept my hand over my silver ring, rubbing the metal with my thumb. “She did not mention that to me.”
“The nursery is struggling, Clara,” George said. He leaned closer, his voice dropping below the rattle of a delivery truck outside. “They had two shipments of ornamental shrubs go bad in the August heat, and the bank does not care about the weather.”
“How much do they owe?” I asked.
George looked down at his wooden ruler, his thumb tracing the worn inches. “More than the house is worth, I reckon. You keep your name off those nursery guarantees.”
“Arthur said it was just a formality,” I said.
“A formality is what they call a trap before it springs,” George said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pencil, marking a circle on the wood of the bin.
I drove home with the wire on the passenger seat, the hum of the highway louder than usual.
