Ryder was stretched out on the couch, boots off, phone in hand, when it buzzed with Ma flashing across the screen.

“Hey, Ma,” he drawled, that Tennessee lilt softened by years of New York polish.

“Well, hey yourself,” Celeste replied. “I’m throwin’ some ribs on the smoker tonight. Thought you and Isobel might like to come on over. I’ve already got the sweet tea chilling, and Terry’s bringing peach cobbler. Figured we could make a night of it out by the fire pit.”

Ryder ...