“Sit down, Emily,” Margaret said, bringing a deep porcelain bowl of buttered potatoes over from the stove.

She smoothed her silk neck scarf with both thumbs before setting the dish on the trivet.

“You look worn out after your long afternoon at the post.”

At five past six exactly I pulled out the chair at the end.

“The base legal office wrapped up my paperwork right on time.”

“Good,” Margaret said quietly.

She reached across the tablecloth and nudged my water glass an inch to the left.

“I made your father’s favorite pot roast tonight.