Iris Held On to Her Paid-Off Title When Her Father Threatened to Call the Police
He didn’t give the keys back to me.
Instead, Arthur unzipped the heavy canvas coat hanging on the wooden wall rack, took the key fob out of his pocket, and dropped my Toyota keys deep into the inside breast pocket of his coat.
“I’ll take a look at that bumper dent after breakfast tomorrow,” Arthur called back toward the dining table.
“Don’t let me forget.”
The thick canvas flap fell back over the pocket, hiding the keys from view.
At seven thirty on Christmas morning, the smell of dark roast coffee filled the kitchen.
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