Ruth opened the door before the knock finished. She had been in the kitchen; there was flour on her wrist and none on her hands, a distinction that meant she had noticed the car and washed one thing in a hurry. She was sixty-six that year, tall as ever, iron-colored hair pinned with a clip that had lost its shine. She looked at Lydia's face and did not waste time on the smaller greetings.
"You've been to Arthur's," she said.
"Yes."
"Come in. The step is the same. Don't make it a ceremony."