She held a pair of black leather work gloves in her left hand and a thick clipboard stuffed with white filing envelopes in her right.

“You left these on the drafting table in the shop,” Brenda said, dropping the leather gloves beside his cold coffee mug.

“And Aunt Clara expects you in Strasburg by eight o’clock for family dinner.”

“I’m not going to Strasburg tonight, Brenda,” he said.

Brenda tapped her glasses against the top latch of her clipboard.

“You’ve sat in this diner every December twenty-fourth for two years, Nathaniel.

The stone house is fifty degrees inside because you won’t call the heating oil truck.”