Kait snickered and whispered something to me about pruning shears. I had twenty minutes to go today, and my love/hate relationship with my job was running about 20/80. I felt my pocket for the lavender envelope Donna handed me earlier, my name etched on front in Violet’s scrolly chicken-on-valium handwriting. I wanted some privacy to open it, because thoughts of Violet made my heart feel like freshly furrowed earth. I waved to Kait to signal she was in charge of the daily lunch debacle and headed off to sit on hold with Dr. Aronson’s office.

Hours later Halle Berry, my black Persian cat, greeted me and threaded my legs enthusiastically in hopes of tuna. I sank into a worn kitchen chair and she leaped into my lap to decorate my white scrubs with fur. My hands shook as I pulled Violet’s letter out and unfolded it.

Dearest Ronni,

How best to thank you? The care you gave me and the loves of my life was the best anyone could ask, and you deserve to be rewarded. My attorney, Melvin Sobel, will be in touch with you soon about that. I set aside a nice sum for you; enough to help launch your writing career and maybe get you out of that uniform and Fairfield Springs.

You have talent, darling. Use it. You’re free now to tell the stories I shared with you, and the letters. I’m gone and the world can know everything—no more secrets. When you get the book written, send it to Jennifer Meyer at Bravissimo Books. Jennifer is Mel’s niece, and he will furnish you her contact information. She will be waiting to read your manuscript. I have no doubt you’ll have a best seller on your hands.

Take care of yourself with the same tenderness you showed me.

With love,

Violet

It was hard to see through the waterfall, much less process what I’d read. Violet had changed my world in so many ways throughout the past five years, and she was still doing it a week after her funeral. Halle licked a tear from my face and jumped to the floor, utterly unconcerned with anything but her food bowl.

“We’re starting a new life again, cat, in true Violet fashion.” I reached for the can opener. “This one may be the best yet.”

Violet Louise Thompson was beautiful and elegant at eighty-two and so scandalous in the manner she passed away Fairfield Springs was being sued for negligence. I alone knew why Violet was where she was when her heart stopped beating. With her permission, the world would soon find out.

She planted the seed of my writing career when I was a newly licensed practical nurse and had worked in the assisted living facility/nursing home for two months. Violet was relentlessly inquisitive; all it took was a few literary references from me in casual conversation.