Sarah rented the second and third floors of a red-brick Victorian in the student ghetto. The staircase from the ground floor led to a door into a short hall. Her bedroom opened off it to the right, next, the living room, and at the end, the kitchen.
She set the bike on the hooks she had installed in the hall and put a kettle on to boil on the gas range. White cabinets reached to the nine-foot ceilings. A shallow white porcelain sink took up most of the space on one counter, and an espresso coffee maker, the other. A yellow Arborite table and two swivel chairs, treasures picked up at the local thrift store, sat in front of the deep window overlooking the street.
She needed the comfort of tea to help her think. What was going on? She carried her cup into the living room and sat in the armchair with the best view of the Sunburst Honey Locust tree that overwhelmed the small front yard of the house. In spring, the emerging leaves sat like yellow candles on the bare limbs, but now the golden tips had almost gone, and late in the season, the green would change to bright yellow again. The fall winds would rip tiny branches from the tree and scatter them on the sidewalk. Street in Glen Williams, she thought. Casson's lovely painting, from the thirties, all dappled yellow and sunshine. The doorbell, ringing, pulled her back into the present.
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