“Four thirty,” Nate said.

“The shop closes right at four.”

He didn’t reach into his coverall pocket to check for a flashlight or spare fuses.

“I might pull the deck off the riding mower after supper,” he said.

“Sharpen the blades before Saturday.”

“I’ll put a pot of green beans on to boil,” I said.

Nate stepped closer and pressed his mouth against my cheek, his jaw rough with two days of graying stubble.

He walked across the gravel drive to his black pickup and pulled the door open.