A man’s faded cotton shirt was buttoned at neck and wrists, loose cotton slacks reached to the ground, gardening gloves protected her hands, and the floppy brim of a straw hat shaded her face from the sun. In times past, such a costume kept a lady’s skin from tanning; today it was to prevent skin cancers. Mrs. Byrd gingerly straightened up as Dwight parked in the gravel driveway and smiled in recognition when he got out of the cruiser and came closer. Her first few steps toward him were stiff, as if her joints had briefly frozen. “The older I get, the more I agree with Charles Dudley Warner,” she said, stripping off her gloves and extending a thin white hand.Dwight took her hand in his and was careful not to squeeze too hard. “Who?”“Mark Twain’s friend. He said that what every gardener needed was a cast-iron back with a hinge in it.” She gave a rueful laugh. “My hinges are so rusty, it would take half the oil in Texas to keep them working. I just wish I could take my skin off and give my poor old bones a shot of WD-40.”She led him up two shallow steps onto a porch shaded by huge oaks and did not insist when Dwight declined her automatic offer of something to drink.
