When I pulled up beside the old Miller property that Sunday afternoon, Opal was already waiting at the edge of the road. She stood with one hand resting on her walking stick and the other clutching a small brown handbag. At eighty-eight, she moved slowly, but her eyes were as sharp as ever.
I stepped out of the car and hurried around to help her.
“Well,” she said, looking at the sagging porch, the weeds, and the crooked shutters, “you two certainly have found yourselves a project.”
I laughed nervously. “That’s one way to describe it.”
She studied the house for another moment. “May I see inside?”
“Of course.”
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