“Did Carlette write back, or call?”

Mr. Jones turned the frame over and slid the cardboard backing away from the girl’s photo. A color postcard and a thick square of vellum slid out. His hand shook as he handed both to his guest.

The front of the postcard featured a color photo of Cinderella Castle at Disney World.

The girlish handwriting on the back was full of flourishes:

Hi, Granddaddy. We are at Disney World, having a great time. Mom said I shouldn’t tell you, but I think you should know that she got married, and we are here on her honeymoon. Walter says he was Daddy’s friend in the Army. I miss you and I’m sorry about Granny. Love, Carlette.

Ivy raised an eyebrow.

“Walter Ramsberger was best man at Ev and Diana’s wedding. He and Ev went through basic training together and shipped out to Vietnam at the same time. Walter came back, but like I said, Ev didn’t.”

The other card was a formal graduation announcement:

MR. AND MRS. WALTER RAMSBERGER ANNOUNCE THE GRADUATION OF THEIR DAUGHTER, CARLETTE DIANE, FROM ROCKY SHOALS SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL, FORT MILL, S.C., MAY 5, 1982.

“I sent her a graduation card with a hundred-dollar bill in it,” the old man said. “Mailed to the last address I had for Diana. But I guess they must have moved, because the card came back unopened.”

His hand strayed to Punkin’s head, and he stroked the dog’s ears.

“So you completely lost touch with your granddaughter?” Ivy said. “That’s so sad.”

“It is,” he agreed. “I moved back here to this house, after Polly died. I brought my sweetheart home to be buried in the family plot at Piney Grove, like she wanted. Everett’s remains are there too. I had no ties to Seattle, and well, I keep hoping, someday, I’ll hear that doorbell ring and I’ll look out and see that little girl standing on my doorstep again.”

He busied himself putting the two cards back into the picture frame, and when he looked up again tears glistened behind the glasses. “Maybe that’s why I answered the door today. I’m a foolish old man, I know. Carlette would be a grown woman now. Might have grandkids of her own. I wonder if I’d recognize her, if I saw her again. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Have you ever tried to track her down?” Ivy asked, her voice gentle.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Mr. Jones said. “Anyway, what’s the point? All that is ancient history now.” His hands shook badly as he stroked Punkin’s head, and Ivy felt guilty for knocking on this stranger’s door and stirring up old heartache.

“Okay,” she said, nodding agreement. “I understand.” She hesitated. “Would you like to keep Carlette’s note?”

Mr. Jones seemed surprised by her offer. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think I would.” He pulled himself up from his armchair and hobbled over to the television, an old-fashioned console affair with a bulbous screen and rabbit-ear antennas. He plucked a cut-glass jar from the top of the console.