Page 94 of When Love Is Lost and Found

"I have something for you," she says.

"What?" I ask.

"When I came in here last weekend, I found an envelope on the counter addressed to me. There were two letters inside from Loren, one for each of us."

She straightens and pulls open a drawer. She hands me the envelope addressed to me. I recognize Loren's handwriting.

"Thank you," I say. "I'll read it later."

I fold it in half and slip it into my back pocket. I wash my hands and rinse the tomato before pulling out a cutting board and slicing the vegetables.

"You really know your way around this kitchen," she says.

"I spent a lot of time here with Loren."

"I miss her," she says.

"I miss her too. I spoke to her a couple of days before she passed. She was weak but remained as positive and wonderful as ever."

"I was there that night," she says. "Talking to you on the phone was what she looked forward to the most."

"I met her when I needed a true friend. She gave me advice about life, work, and family, and she put up with the nightmares I had in the middle of the night."

"But you slept in the guesthouse,"

"She could hear me from her bedroom. I probably kept her up many nights, but she never complained."

She looks away, probably recalling the time I woke her up when I was having a nightmare.

"Do you still get them?" Her question surprises me. I didn't think she cared.

"I haven't had one in a couple of years. Therapy helps."

"I'm glad."

I nod, not having anything to add.

I watch her prepare the sandwiches. She brushes olive oil on one side of each slice of bread and then spreads mayonnaise on the other. She tops them high with thin slices of roast beef, tomato, and provolone before placing them on the preheated press and closing the lid.

I finish slicing the cucumbers and add them to a big bowl with the lettuce, mushrooms, and tomatoes.

I stare at my plate when she sets it in front of me.

She takes a bite of her sandwich and nods, signaling it's good.

"Sharon, why am I here?" I ask, feeling the knot in the pit of my stomach slowly unraveling.

She chews briefly and sips her lemonade before answering my question.

"Because I thought I should feed you before I apologize."

"You're going to apologize?" My words sound bitter. "You're about four years too late."

"I've been sorry for a long time." Her emerald green gaze is filled with sincerity.

"Have you ever heard of a phone?"

"I don't have an excuse."

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