By four thirty that afternoon, the sky behind the hardware store had gone the flat gray of cold tin.

Bob was heaving twelve-gallon cans of porch paint into the trunk of his sedan when I stepped up onto the concrete loading dock.

He froze with one hand on the trunk latch and jangled his brass key ring between his thumbs.

“What brings you downtown, Penelope?” he asked, his voice brisk and bright.

“You ought to be home fixing supper.”

“I drove down to Canton after lunch,” I said.