Vance stayed until seven that evening, leaving red ink marks over three different pages on his desk.

By ten the next morning Dean was at my kitchen table.

He put down a warm loaf of braided egg bread wrapped in a blue dish towel.

“Baked it this morning, Clara,” he said.

He smoothed the edges of the towel against the laminate countertop.

A tin of apple butter sat next to his keys.

“You look worn out,” I said.

“These probate filings take a lot out of a man,” Dean said.