I drove home to Oakridge and pulled into the driveway at five to six.

Bob’s sedan came up the driveway twenty minutes after that, his headlights sweeping over the newly painted white trim around the front door.

He came into the kitchen with his leather briefcase and set a small square cardboard box wrapped in shiny silver paper on the counter.

“What’s in the box?” I asked from the stove, where I was stirring a pot of chicken noodle soup.

“Just a little something I picked up for our anniversary trip,” Bob said, hanging his coat on the wooden peg beside the back door.