Raymond sat in a high-backed wicker armchair on the wide front porch overlooking the green Bellevue hills.

A dark mahogany walking stick with a polished brass handle rested against his right knee.

He wore a clean navy wool sweater, and his face had regained a healthy, solid color under the open sky.

When he heard my car door shut, he blinked twice quickly and put both hands on the wooden armrests.

“You’re ten minutes late, Nora,” Raymond said, his deep voice raspy but full of strength.

“Traffic near the lake bridge was backed up for half a mile,” I said, carrying Theodore up the wide granite steps.