“Yes, I’m Robert Mitchell.”

“This came for you from Oakridge Floral,” he said.

He passed me the heavy basket and held out a digital pad for my signature.

I signed with the plastic stylus and carried the basket into the little kitchen.

It was stuffed with shiny green apples, two jars of red fruit preserves, roasted cashews, three wedges of sharp cheddar and a box of fancy crackers.

A thick purple silk ribbon was tied in a double bow around the handle.