From the kitchen doorway, your mother’s voice, clipped and expectant.

You opened the door.

The man on the porch was tall. Imposingly so. He filled the frame, broad-shouldered in a perfectly tailored, dark suit. A crisp white shirt, a tasteful tie. Wire-framed glasses sat over sharp, assessing eyes that took you in with a single, calm glance. In one hand, he held a bouquet of white lilies and deep red roses, wrapped in simple brown paper.