I tried to clasp it around my left wrist, but my fingers were clumsy and stiff from the morning chill.
“Let me,” he said.
He leaned forward, his large, calloused fingers working the small latch. His skin was rough from years of working in the yard, but his touch was surprisingly gentle against my skin.
As he fastened the metal, I saw him glance toward the hallway closet.
After Nolan went out to the garage to check the oil in the sedan, I went to the hallway closet to find my light blue cardigan.
The closet was narrow, smelling of old cedar and the wool blankets we kept for the winter.
On the top shelf, behind a stack of spare pillows, sat a small wooden shelf where we used to keep our keys.
Next to the key tray was the small, silver-plated photo frame.
The frame was lying flat on its face, the black velvet backing showing instead of the picture
