Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
I looked at the line where my signature was expected. The legal description of our home of thirty years was reduced to three lines of block text, making the place feel small and easily traded.
“I need to talk to Frank Higgins before I sign anything,” I said.
Sable took the paper off the dresser, her movements sharp. “Frank is Gordon’s lawyer, Cassandra. He is not yours.”
She did not wait for my reply, stepping out of the room and leaving the door wide open.
I walked out to the garden path at half past ten to find some quiet. The autumn air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves from the pecan trees. Martha Vance, my next-door neighbor, was already at the wooden fence line, wearing her heavy gray wool shawl over her shoulders.
She was clipping the deadheads off her knock-out roses with brass shears, her movements brisk and practiced.
“Cassandra, dear,” Martha said, her words coming in her usual rapid-fire chatter. “I wanted to bring over some potato soup yesterday, but I saw that big white appraisal truck in your driveway and did not want to interrupt.”
