Richard Collins whipped out a business card and flashed his perfect teeth. “Our offer for your land still stands. We would have demolished the house, anyway.”
Ava MacGregor’s scarred boot stirred the ashes of her front porch. Her eyes followed the child scampering among the skeletons of heirloom fruit trees.
“Gramma, I found apples in the orchard! The rotten ones had yellow jackets on them, so I had to be careful.” Six-year-old Isla beamed as she hefted a tote bag from the scorched grass. “I’ll help you plant the seeds.”
Ava gestured with her chin. “There’s your answer, Mr. Collins.”