Dad stormed into the room, muttering under his breath, “Of all the days. Kelly, I need to use one of your ovens. Ours is on the fritz. Again. And Colby is out of town. Wouldn’t you know his sister would have to go and have her baby today?”

“How dare she,” Kelly teased. “And on a Sunday.”

“Hey, Mr. McIntyre,” Andrew said. “What’s going on with the oven?”

“Andrew?” CB laid the casserole pan on the counter, then walked over and cuffed him on the shoulder. “I didn’t even notice you standing there. Good to see you. I heard you were in town. I guess you’re a big-time chef now.”

“Never would’ve happened without the start you gave me.”

CB beamed. “You always were a great cook. Dependable too. Not like that oven. It’s so temperamental these days. It’s getting tired, like me.”

“Why don’t you let me see if I can fix it?”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that. You’re a fancy chef now.”

“I’m still Andrew, and still handy. Let me see what I can do.”

“That would be great. If you don’t mind. I know you’re only in town for a short time. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“Not a problem at all. I have a free afternoon, and your daughter just turned me down for lunch. Come on.” Andrew followed CB back to the diner.

Kelly stood there steaming.

Mom turned and grinned. “I think he still cares about you.”

“He’s just being nice. Old friends. Don’t push.” Andrew York was a distraction Kelly couldn’t afford right now.

“Wouldn’t hurt you to be polite. You sounded like a grump.”

“I did not.” But even her tone just then sounded grumpy to her.

Mom shrugged. “Let’s put this casserole in the oven for Dad. That old stove needed to be replaced a year ago. We’ve spent more fixing it than a new one would’ve cost.”

Kelly didn’t doubt it. Dad was frugal about stuff like that, wanting to get every last mile out of things. She preheated the oven to three hundred fifty degrees. “Forty-five minutes.”

“That should do it.”

“I’ll bring it over when it’s done,” Kelly said.

Mom grabbed a handful of the vegan-friendly chocolate-covered pea rejects and left.

When Dad’s famous corn casserole was done, she pulled it out of the oven, perfectly browned and bubbling on top. She let it cool long enough that she could carry it next door without burning herself.

The diner was a hive of activity. Plates clanked, and customers chatted over the first meal of the day. The smell of coffee permeated the air. She nodded hellos to neighbors as she walked between the tables with the covered dish.