“In room 214 she told me my cooking was the only reason she ever thought about staying in Oakridge,” I said, flipping the meat with a wooden fork.

Wade gave a short, clean laugh that lit up the quiet room.

We ate together at the little table where Susan and I had shared hundreds of everyday meals over twenty years.

When we were done, Wade reached into his black briefcase and took out a small velvet pouch tied shut with a silk cord.

“She left this in the drawer by her bed,” Wade said, setting the pouch next to my teacup.

“She told me to give it to you once everything was over.”