Arthur signed the fourth page with a hand he forced steady, then pushed the papers across the mahogany without looking up again.

By six thirty, the sky outside the rectory kitchen windows had gone a deep blue, and the cast-iron radiator under the sink started to clank.

I fried two pork chops in the skillet while Wade laid out yellow ceramic plates and paper napkins on the laminate table.

“She used to burn the edges on purpose,” Wade said, leaning on the counter.

“Every Sunday afternoon back in the old house.”