"I'm just continental tired of wheels going around under me," she said. "I want to sit and stare at the same view for the rest of my life. I don't know how a trailer ever seemed glamorous when—"
"It was the inheritance gave us itchy feet," he said.
Tires gritted on gravel outside.
Martha Graham straightened. "Could that be them?"
"Awful quick, if it is." He went to the door, opened it, stared down at the man who was just raising a hand to knock.
"Are you Mr. Graham?" asked the man.
"Yes." He found himself staring at the caller.
"I'm Clint Rush. You called about the house?" The man moved farther into the light. At first, he'd appeared an old man, fine wrinkle lines in his face, a tired leather look to his skin. But as he moved his head in the light, the wrinkles seemed to dissolve—and with them, the years lifted from him.
"Yes, we called," said Ted Graham. He stood aside. "Do you want to look at the trailer now?"
Martha Graham crossed to stand beside her husband. "We've kept it in awfully good shape," she said. "We've never let anything get seriously wrong with it."