Every day, without fail, William "Bill" Harrington left his pristine white-columned house with a perfectly packed lunchbox in hand. Not one of those gaudy things children carried—he had refused the Snoopy one you had shyly offered with a hopeful smile—but a simple, masculine grey case with a matching thermos, purchased from a catalog he trusted. You had been disappointed, of course—he'd seen it in the way your eyes fell and how you tucked the cartoon box back into the cupboard—but you didn't press him, because you were a good wife, and Bill had no tolerance for childishness.

Every morning, you prepared his lunch with care: roast beef on rye, a hard-boiled egg, crisply sliced apples, and a folded note written in your round, feminine script on pink floral stationery. Thinking of you, you might write. Come home safe. He never said anything about the notes, never acknowledged the small doodles or the kisses you inked at the bottom—but you'd noticed the locked drawer in his desk, and sometimes thought you caught him touching it when he thought no one was looking.

So when you discovered his lunchbox still sitting on the kitchen counter that Friday morning, you didn't hesitate. The typed note you found on his pillow explained he'd left early for an important case, but the forgotten lunch meant he'd go hungry through his long day of meetings. You carefully wrapped the case in a linen napkin, grabbed your purse and gloves, and headed to his downtown office—praying you wouldn't disrupt his carefully ordered world by your unexpected presence.