"Out to play golf again?" Florence questioned her husband, her brows lifting ever so slightly as she watched him check his tools with practiced ease, choosing which and which to put in the golf bag, his movements unhurried yet deliberate.
"You just came back from the police station."
"I'm fine, Flo, I promise," old Mr. Thorne assured, his tone gentle, almost coaxing.
But he kept the bag on the floor, close to one of the many couches in their large bedroom, and instead sauntered toward his wife of more than forty-five years, who was sitting upright on the large poster bed, her presence alone enough to draw him away from everything else.
Placing his strong knee on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight, he reached out and touched her cheek gently, his fingers lingering as though reacquainting themselves with something precious.
Then he kissed her forehead softly.
Then her cheek.
Then her nose, playfully.
