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five-foot-four frame. She wore the long, roomy dresses popular in the sixties. Her feet were always clad in flip-flops, her mop of wavy red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was thirty-five years old and attractive, but wore little makeup to enhance her natural beauty. Adrienne had never seen her without dangly earrings that made tiny tinkling sounds as she floated around the coffee shop.
    She handed the drink to Adrienne. “Here. Go have a seat. I can join you in about ten.”
    Adrienne positioned herself so the guy who’d bumped her—the one who continued to stare while she waited for her drink—was out of her direct line of vision. “Looks like I caught you at a bad time,” Adrienne said when Sammie dropped into the seat across from her.
    “I’m making money. As far as I’m concerned, this is a great time. Here, try this and tell me what you think.” Sammie held a napkin out, on which sat a small block of bread.
    Adrienne crunched into the crouton. “Delicious. Homemade?”
    “Of course.”
    “Garlic, butter, sea salt, something else . . . ” She tapped her finger to her chin. She’d grown adept at detecting which spices were in the food she ate. Long, boring dinners with Eric and some hospital department head he was trying to impress had forced Adrienne to look inward for entertainment. With each entrée she ordered, Adrienne would see if she could guess each and every ingredient. If something stumped her, she’d ask the waiter, who then asked the chef. Chefs began to take an interest in the woman who was guessing their secrets. At first, Eric had enjoyed the attention when the chef would leave the kitchen and hover at their table. But he quickly tired of it. To them, Eric was invisible, and she received all the attention. Eric wasn’t good at playing wallflower, so Adrienne stopped guessing ingredients and sat quietly like a good little wife should.
    “Parmesan,” Sammie filled in for her.
    “Brilliant.”
    “Your turn. Let’s see it.” Sammie rubbed her hands on her apron and reached.
    Adrienne handed her the photo but left the letter in her pocket.
    “Handsome. Who is he?” Sammie flipped the picture over.
    “I’m not sure. It was in the box. I think it’s the man who wrote the letters. There’s more, but you don’t have time right now.” Adrienne gestured toward the line of people that was forming at the register.
    “1942. Isn’t that around the beginning of World War II?” Sammie tapped the photo.
    Adrienne nodded. “I think his girlfriend lived in my house at the time. Have any ideas how I can find out more about them?”
    Sammie frowned in concentration. “You could go talk to Leo. He owns the diner across town. He’s a World War II veteran and has lived here forever. Maybe he knew them.” Her eyes fanned to the register, where a young girl was tying an apron around her waist. “My backup person is here. Could you stay for a few more minutes? I want to ask you about something.”
    “Sure.”
    Sammie smoothed her skirt. “Listen, Ryan was by earlier.”
    Adrienne dropped her head to the table, a pool of hair blocking the light.
    “Did I say something wrong?” Sammie said.
    “No.” She peered out from under her hair. “Ryan and I aren’t dating anymore.”
    “Why not? After a while, I never saw you together without a huge smile on your face.”
    “Right? But let’s face it. He was the textbook rebound boyfriend.”
    Sammie reached up to untangle her hair from her earring. “I don’t see how. You didn’t even like him at first.”
    “You mean when his tanned, muscled body showed up at my door to move in my furniture?”
    “Yeah, if memory serves, you told me his flirty, polished confidence made you want to throw up.” Finally free of the hair strand, Sammie shook her head gently, the tinkling sound of her earrings drifting across the table.
    “He did.” Adrienne thought back and smiled. But he’d won her over with the genuine