“You used to tell me cinnamon belonged in baked apples, not in beef stew,” I said, pouring a splash of milk into his cup.

“The cinnamon makes it taste like Sunday afternoons, Claire,” Greg said.

“We have plenty of cinnamon left in the pantry for this Sunday,” I said.

Greg picked up a piece of rye toast with his left hand and took a small bite while Biscuit wagged his tail against the chair leg.

“Marcus Vance called my cell phone at seven this morning,” Greg said, setting the toast down on his napkin.

“Did he finish registering the updated property deed with the county clerk?” I asked.