Flour coated the butcher block island in the middle of my kitchen.

Margaret stood on the other side and drummed her fingernails on the wooden cutting board.

“These blackberry scones are going to turn out perfect, honey.”

I folded the dough over on itself and pressed it down with the heel of my hand.

The clock on the kitchen wall said nine in the morning.

“Ethan used to put away three of these at once back in high school,” I said. “I’m hoping he’s still got the appetite for them.”

Footsteps crossed the hardwood in the front hall. Ethan came into the kitchen first.

He had on a crisp blue shirt and was rubbing the back of his neck. Vanessa came in right behind him.

She was carrying a white cardboard pastry box tied up with red string. She wore a spotless white dress and smoothed her skirt as she stopped at the island.

Her skirt was already completely flat.

“We brought you breakfast,” Vanessa said.

She put the heavy white box straight down on top of my floury canvas grocery tote.

I tugged the tote out from under the box and brushed the white dust off the dark green fabric.

I folded the empty bag and laid it on the wooden stool.