A week later, Mitch was home again, settled in bed for the next few days. By then Cord had regular help from Eric, two afternoons a week and Saturdays. He told Shallie he was pleased by Eric’s newly positive attitude and his willingness to learn, and he knew that much of the money he was paying the boy would go to the ranchers he still owed. Brynne had also recommended her waiter, Barry from Detroit, who claimed that he was “thrilled to get a real Western experience.”

So, back at the ranch, as Carly had started to say, things were fine. For the moment.

Shallie felt it was very much an in-between time. Above all, waiting to see Mitch’s condition improve. Waiting for Thanksgiving and wedding plans to coalesce. And she was intent on making progress with her photography and other new projects.

As Thanksgiving—and their party—drew closer, she noticed that their moods lightened, their fears lessened. But she couldn’t put a halt to her worries about Mitch; naturally, Cord felt the same. Mitch’s close call had made them more aware than ever of the uncertainty and brevity of life, of the need to cherish each and every day.

And ultimately, what was Thanksgiving about if not gratitude for life itself?

SHALLIE RECEIVED ANOTHER call from Russ, saying he had something else to show her. He didn’t know what it meant, he said, if it meant anything at all, but could she come over to look at it? Now? She knew from experience that he wouldn’t reveal anything he considered potentially important except in person.

She immediately drove to the motel, where he was waiting to let her in.

“So, what is it?” she asked, realizing she sounded impatient. “I mean, thanks and what is it?”

“Like I said, it could be useless. Here.” He took a postcard, in almost pristine condition, from his desk and handed it over. “I actually found it in a book of Della’s, if you can believe that. She was never much of a reader, but… Post date’s 2004. The year Della died.”

The front was a photograph of Hemingway House in Key West, with its colony of cats. The card was addressed to the Painted Pony Motel, and on the back someone had printed a brief message by hand.

S. WOULD LOVE THIS PLACE. GIVE POSTCARD TO HER IF YOU CAN. HOPE SHE’S WELL.

LOVE.

No signature, not even any initials.

Could this possibly be from Christine Fletcher? There were two hints. The reference to “S,” clearly a girl or woman, and the fact that it had been sent from Florida, where she’d had a long history. Was Christine saying—and this would’ve been fifteen years ago, Shallie reminded herself—that she lived or had been living in Key West?