I turned the card over and recognized June Kessler’s neat, motherly handwriting covering the white paper.

“Walt is doing much better with his joints in the cool mountain air,” June had written in blue ink.

“We think of you every time we sit on our porch, sweet Claire,” the note went on.

“You have a quiet room waiting for you in Oregon whenever you want to visit.”

“Are you going to write her back?” Lynn asked, adjusting her silver bracelet against her wrist.

“I’m mailing her a jar of local sourwood honey on Monday morning,” I said, slipping the card carefully into the zippered pocket of my purse.