“Caroline’s casserole,” Rosalie said.

“What if I burn the rolls?”

“Then we eat the casserole.”

She smiled and walked to the hall with the cane.

The dog followed her, and I heard her open the closet door.

At half past three, the sun had moved behind the pines and the garden was cool.

Rosalie sat on the porch bench with a pair of pruning shears and a pile of dead rose heads on a newspaper.

“You’re cutting the good ones,” I said.