Lure of the Wolf
By T. Keeney
Postlewaite said to her sister one Saturday morning in early April.
“They’re not your azaleas, . They belong to the college,” Angela replied.
“Well, I fertilize them every summer; I prune them. I’m the one who takes care of them.” The sisters were pawing through a thrift store. Vivian held up a pale turquoise cardigan with an embroidered rose on the left side. The rose was delicately stitched with creamy silk at the center of its blossom, and graduated threads of wine, pink, and mauve for its petals. And so soft…She rubbed it against her cheek.
Angela glanced at the sweater. “, that’s dreadfully frumpy, it looks like something a librarian would wear.”
“I am a librarian.”
“Well, you don’t have to dress like one. When I ask you to come with me to find
