To Bob, Lynda said, “We can’t stop. Florrie loves pottering in her own time, and her blindness is no more a concern than it ever was. She’s been that way for a long time and copes so well. It is wonderful how capable she is in her own space.”
“Fine then. I’ll talk when I mow her grass later. But those parcels have to stop. . . . I’m worried that she’ll trip on the path when she bends over to set the stuff on our step. We might not hear if she fell. She must come when it’s dark.” His laugh was half comical, “I don’t suppose that matters when you can’t see.”
Back at home later ― sneezing and sweaty as he cleaned and oiled the mower, Bob called to Lynda from the garage, “Come and hear this. I think we’ve got a deal with Florrie. If you agree.”
Lynda’s expression lit with hope. “Will it stick?”
“God knows. I hope so. She went on about paying us again because we won’t take the gifts. When I explained we couldn’t and wouldn’t do that, she suggested making a donation to a profession-related group for each of us, to recognise our help. What do you reckon?”
“Clever idea. Then she won’t feel beholden. . . . And it wouldn’t compromise us. Didn’t I tell you she’s totally on the ball?”
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