The brown sugar glaze hissed against the hot iron edge of the roasting pan, and the little kitchen filled with the heavy scent of cloves, scorched honey, and dark hickory smoke.

Richard brushed another heavy layer over the ham, his right thumb running across the pale, smooth scar along his knuckle.

He rubbed the old mark twice, weighing the oven’s heat against the minutes left on the timer.

He always rubbed that spot when he was working out operational risk.

“That ham looks big enough to feed an entire platoon,” William said, putting a heavy ceramic plate of warm oatmeal cookies on the corner of the wooden counter.

William wiped his palms down the legs of his jeans before dragging a wooden chair out from under the kitchen table.

He wiped his hands on his thighs a second time, his knuckles red from the spring wind outside.

He glanced at the roasting pan once more, then lifted his eyes to the round clock ticking on the wall above the gas stove.

“Is Emily driving down from Belle Meade early today?” William asked quietly, his voice slow and careful.

“She said three o’clock,” Richard answered.

He laid the horsehair glaze brush on a folded paper towel with a flat wooden click.

“Her mother-in-law is throwing an Easter brunch out at the family estate for their corporate board.”

“You haven’t laid eyes on her since mid-February,” William said, leaning his forearms on the edge of the table.

“That’s eight long weeks, Richard.”

Richard picked up a damp towel and wiped a little smear of glaze off the stainless steel edge of the sink.

“They keep a packed calendar down in that end of the county,” Richard said.

“Ethan has executive responsibilities.”

“She used to call you every Thursday afternoon at four on the dot,” William said, glancing up at him.