My vintage blue leather planner was not where I had left it.
I looked behind the stainless-steel toaster, then checked the wooden knife block and the space beside the breadbox, but the counter was empty.
A small, cold thread of doubt started in my stomach.
I knew I had placed it right next to my purse, which was still sitting exactly where I had left it by the window.
I turned back toward the hallway, thinking I must have carried the planner into the house and set it down without remembering.
As I passed the entryway, a flash of blue caught my eye against the dark wood of the console table near the front door.
My planner was sitting there, neatly aligned with the edge of the brass mail tray, its leather strap neatly tucked underneath.
I had not walked near the front door since we first arrived and hung our coats in the closet.
I picked up the planner, its cool leather smooth against my palm, and stood in the quiet of the entryway for a long moment.
