But charm can be a performance, and performances sometimes end the moment the audience leaves.
That winter afternoon, snow drifted slowly past the kitchen window while Ava stood near the back door with a pair of worn crutches tucked under her arms. One of the rubber tips had worn down so badly that the metal beneath occasionally scraped against the floor when she walked.
She shifted nervously before speaking.
“Miss Angela?” she said softly.
The woman standing at the counter did not turn immediately. Angela Whitaker Hartwell had the kind of beauty that looked flawless in photographs but somehow colder in real life, like porcelain left outside in winter.
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