The screen door on the Birch Street front porch clicked shut at 4:15 p.m., twelve minutes after my taxi let me off at the curb.

My mother was standing at the porch railing, her fingers already smoothing the thin silk scarf at her neck before I got to the top step.

“You’ll have to park your rental car down on the lower gravel, Emily,” she said.

Her voice had the soft, breathless hush she always used when she handed out rules dressed up as little favors.

“Daniel needs the whole garage for his new company SUV.”

“I took a cab from the station,” I told her.

I had my father’s silver pocket watch in a velvet case in my coat pocket.

Its case had three dark scratches across the back hinge from his second tour in Germany, and the brass winding stem was jammed solid.

I’d set a reminder on my phone for four o’clock the next afternoon to drop it off at the clockmaker on Main Street.

“Well, that works out, then,” Mother said.

She reached around me to snatch a gray window envelope off the porch table and slid it under a woven placemat before I could see the return address.

“Your brother’s driving down from Richmond for dinner.

He’s had a very heavy week with the new logistics contract.”

I straightened the top brass button on my jacket.

“Is he still running the reserve unit in Roanoke?”

“He’s doing a lot more than that now,” she said, backing toward the kitchen door.

“He manages regional supply lines for the defense board.

You know how demanding that kind of work is.”