EXCERPT :

There was nothing unusual about the day. The humidity seemed bearable enough for July and the smell of the freshly laid dolomite on Joe Scott’s prize-winning roses assured him he had just advised the neighborhood, he had done so. Ethyl summoned Joe to the front porch where she had just laid out a tray of scones with her special homemade blueberry and apple jam, fresh whipped cream, and a pot of earl grey.