11
EDGAR STARED OUT AT the parking lot of the Norton Simon Museum. The wipers swished across the windshield of his SUV, clearing the rain that had crept back into the Pasadena sky. He felt bad driving such a large car for a single man with no kids, horrified about his carbon footprint, but it was the easiest way for him to transport flowers to shows without having to drive a conspicuous white van or dirty pickup truck around town.
He stared out at the few deciduous trees around the parking lot. They had dropped their yellow leaves into the green bushes, a few still clinging to the bare branches. Because winter never really came to Southern California, it wasn’t long after the last leaves dropped from the trees that they started to produce new buds again. It made him miss the autumn color
