“But sixteen dollars for shipping?” I asked, my voice rising. “That is ridiculous. If you needed something from the pharmacy, you know I would have driven over to get it for you. You did not have to pay for overnight delivery.”
“I did not pay for it,” Dorothy said, her jaw setting into a stubborn line. “Alex took care of it.”
“Who is Alex?” I asked. “Where did you meet him? Is he a delivery driver?”
“He is a very polite young man,” Dorothy said. “He is far more attentive than the regular postal carriers we have had lately.”
“I bought the low-sodium broth you wanted,” I said, my voice sounding desperate even to my own ears. “And the milk with the yellow cap. The one you always say is the only brand that does not taste like chalk.”
“I do not need the milk, Greta,” Dorothy said, her tone as dry and crisp as a dried autumn leaf. “I have plenty of milk.”
“But you told me on Sunday that you were completely out,” I said. “You wrote it on the back of the envelope. I have the envelope right here in my pocket.”
