“Birdie, I know you’re angry with me.”
“I’m not angry,” Birdie said.
Poopie slammed a hand on the counter. “Yes, you are. Just tell me you are. Yell at me. Do something.”
“I don’t own the orchard yet. I can’t fire you.”
Poopie looked like she’d been slapped. Then she raised herself up, straightening her back and lifting her chin.
“If you want me to leave, I will.”
Birdie twisted the dish towel in her hands. “You left me already.”