I walked into the spacious foyer of Promise Hospice. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows with their plantation shutters. Potted plants and vases of fresh flowers gave the area a feeling of welcome, and if there was a scent of illness elsewhere in the building, there was none here.
“I’m here to see Bradley Martin,” I said to the receptionist at the front desk. “I’m Kipp Llewellyn, his grandson.”
“He’s in the garden.” Her smile was filled with compassion. “Mindy, please take Mr. Llewellyn to the garden.”
“Sure.” The girl who came to the desk looked vaguely familiar. She was a pretty brunette wearing a beige shirt and slacks, with an amethyst scarf threaded through the belt loops at her waist. “Hi, Kipp. It’s nice to see you. Come on, it’s right this way.”
“Um…” I followed her down the corridor, trying to peer unobtrusively at the name tag clipped to the breast pocket of her shirt. It just read Mindy, which I already knew.