“I told the secretary that Mr.

Vance handles all our deliveries now,” Grace said.

She picked up her pencil and went back to shading the leaves in her sketch, her hands steady and calm on the paper.

She didn’t pull her gray hooded sweatshirt sleeves down over her thumbs or tuck her knees up to her chest.

She just drew, her shoulders loose and resting easily against the back of her wooden chair.

At eleven thirty, the warm smell of melting butter and brown sugar drifted down the short hallway from the kitchen.