Our kitchen was big enough to fit three regular dispatch desks.

The white marble counters stayed cold even in August, and the stainless steel appliances showed every fingerprint.

Tiffany stood at the island cutting yellow squash into neat round slices with a chef’s knife.

I sat at the oak kitchen table with the evening paper spread open, though I hadn’t read one sentence on the front page.

The grandfather clock in the front hall struck seven, its chime ringing off the high plaster ceiling.

“Are you going to change out of your work clothes before dinner?” she asked, tipping the squash into a pan of hot oil.