I pulled up to the curb outside his hotel on Higgins Road and let the engine idle while he hauled his suitcase out of the back seat.

“Friday at five o’clock, Naomi,” David said through the open passenger window.

“Not one minute after.”

The smell of melted butter and rich beef fat filled the front hallway before I’d even unbuttoned my coat.

I went into the kitchen and put my laptop bag down on the laminate table.

My mother, Margaret, was standing at the stove with a pair of long metal tongs in her right hand.

One thick ribeye steak sizzled in the heavy black cast-iron pan.