“Tim, you owe your mother an apology.”

“Yeah? That may be, Dad, but she won’t be getting it from me tonight,” he said, rising and knocking his chair back; the sound startled him.

Tim grabbed his coat and bag and headed for the door.

“You get back here right now!”

The elder Channing’s voice boomed through the small cottage. Tim cringed—a childhood reflex—but did not falter in his direction. In fact, he seemed to quicken his step, if only slightly.

He opened the door to the cottage and was assaulted by the bitter cold of the Adirondack night. Hastily, he put his scarf around his neck and brought it to his face, attempting to shield it from the worst of the gale. He didn’t bother shutting the door as he headed down th...

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