“Good morning,” Ranata said.

Her voice had the soft, musical tone she usually saved for charity galas and school board meetings.

She didn’t glance at my stained work jacket or check her spotless boots before walking toward me.

She held the heavy basket in both arms, resting it against her hip.

“I brought you some provisions,” she said.

I looked through the cellophane.

Inside were tall glass bottles, gold foil boxes, and packages of imported pasta.

It looked like a silent auction prize at a country club.