“Dean’s coming for dinner at six,” I said.

“Put those assessment sheets back in your bag before he shows up.”

At six on the dot, headlights swept across the kitchen window as Dean pulled his sedan into the gravel driveway.

He came in the back door with a covered glass dish wrapped in a damp white dish towel.

“Brought some hot chicken stew from the diner,” Dean said, setting the dish on the stove.

He unbuttoned his heavy dark coat and carefully brushed imaginary dust off its sleeves before draping it over the back of a kitchen chair.