The copper kettle began to whistle at six in the morning, a low, metallic hiss that always sounded like a slow leak.
I turned the burner off and poured the hot water into two ceramic mugs, watching the steam rise against the dark kitchen window.
Across the counter, Adam adjusted his silk tie in the reflection of the microwave door. His leather briefcase lay open beside the toaster, already packed with folders and his travel shaving kit.
“The Nashville flight connects through Atlanta today,” he said, not looking up as he slid a stack of quarterly reports into the brass clasp.
I set his mug down on the granite counter next to his phone.
“You usually take the direct flight on Mondays,” I said.
Adam reached out and pulled his phone toward him, slide-stepping a small slip of glossy paper beneath the black leather casing of the device. It was a quick, practiced motion, but the edge of a blue airline ticket stub remained visible for a second before his thumb covered it.
“They canceled the direct route for the autumn season,” he said, rubbing his left temple with his index finger. “Some regional scheduling conflict.”
I looked down at his left hand, where his gold band caught the light from the stove.
On my own finger, my silver wedding band felt heavy and cool, a solid weight that had not left my hand in twenty-three years.
“I thought you said you would be in Tennessee until Friday,” I said, leaning against the counter.
“That is still the plan,” he said, taking a quick sip of the hot tea. “I have three client consultations in Franklin, then the regional board meeting on Thursday night.”
He zipped his briefcase closed with a sharp, decisive snap.
“You should get some rest before your afternoon shift,” he added, kissing my cheek as he reached for his coat.
The scent of his expensive cologne lingered in the quiet kitchen long after the garage door rolled down.
I stood by the sink and adjusted my silver watch, checking the time against the microwave clock.
At exactly two in the afternoon, the heat on the tarmac at Gate D twenty-four pressed through the thick glass of the terminal windows.
Evelyn Clark, my flight lead for the eight-forty service to Florence, was already sorting the blue plastic drawers of the beverage carts. She patted her neat gray hair bun, a gesture she only used when the gate agents were running behind.
“The catering truck was forty minutes late with the customs seals,” Evelyn said, her southern drawl slowing down the chaos of the boarding area. “We are going to be rushing the pre-departure setup.”
I lifted a tray of miniature club soda cans and slotted them into the metal runners.
“We have ninety minutes before boarding,” I said, counting the plastic cups. “We can manage.”
Evelyn reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a revised passenger manifest, her thumb tracing the top lines.
“The gate supervisor just radioed down,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “They added a late-addition VIP pair to the first-class cabin.”
“Did they get the meal upgrades?” I asked.
“The manifest says they requested the premium service package,” Evelyn said, tapping her fingers against the metal cart. “But the ticketing office flagged it as a last-minute transfer.”
“Where did the transfer come from?” I asked.
“An domestic connection that landed twenty minutes ago,” she said, sliding the manifest back into her pocket.
The sound of the regional jet engines whining on the taxiway filled the pause between us.
At three in the afternoon, the airport lounge was quiet, filled only with the low murmur of business travelers on cell phones.
Caleb Vance, my cousin, sat at a corner table with three thick manila folders spread across the dark mahogany wood. He tapped his gold pen against his yellow notepad, the rhythmic clicking keeping time with the grandfather clock near the entrance.
