The roses ran through Gretchen’s mind. They were never going to make it. They couldn’t sit in a car for so long and still be fresh. Though she’d wrapped the stems in damp towels, the way she always did, the April sun had risen an hour ago, baking her dark brown van while she tried to get the lug nuts to work with her instead of against her.
The roses“Mom, someone finally drove by.” Dixie returned, her voice chipper as usual. Gretchen coached herself not to snap at her daughter. She’d been helpful that morning in the gardens while Gretchen had attended to the apiary.
She groaned as she thought about the honey sitting in the van too. It had probably oozed all over by now, and she didn’t dare open the door to check. Instead, she straightened, very aware of the kink in her back. So she wasn’
