Janet Warnes

Heart of Gold

I wiped the sweat from my brow, streaking dirt across my face. In late July, the sun was hot and unforgiving. I told Mrs. Martin that it was not a good idea to plant roses at this time of year, but she insisted. She was paying me, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. I had law school tuition to pay, after all. But ugh, the heat! I let my shovel drop to the ground and flopped down in the dappled shade of a nearby tree: a gorgeous, old oak tree that looked to be as old as Mrs. Martin herself.