Perhaps he liked it.
I sent Richard a picture.
“All right, Richie. But don’t complain if I block the restaurant lighting.”
He replied with three smiling emojis.
The following evening, my granddaughter stood in my bedroom doorway while I fastened the ankle straps.
I sent Richard a picture.
“You look gorgeous, Grandma.”
“I look qualified to dust ceiling fans.”
She took a photograph anyway.
In it, I was smiling more broadly than I had realized.
“You look gorgeous, Grandma.”
The navy dress had been Thomas’s favorite, though I had not worn it since his funeral.
Choosing it did not feel like replacing him.
It felt like carrying the life we had shared into a room I had been afraid to enter alone.
I had not worn it since his funeral.
Richard waited beneath the restaurant’s brass awning.
He was smaller than his profile pictures suggested, with silver hair carefully combed and a red pocket square that sat slightly crooked.
He looked up at me and smiled so broadly that I laughed.
He was smaller than his profile pictures suggested.
“Perfect!” he murmured.
“You certainly got your wish, Richie.”
He kissed my hand.
Then his gaze slipped past me toward the traffic.
“Perfect!”
Inside, the hostess offered us a quiet table near the fireplace.
Richard pointed toward the front instead.
“Could we have the one beside the window?”
The hostess warned that it was exposed to the sidewalk, but he insisted the view was better.
Richard pointed toward the front instead.
I thought he meant the city lights.
Now those heels rested beneath a table beside the restaurant’s front window, exactly where Richard had insisted we sit.
Moments later, a black sedan slowed outside.
Richard stopped stirring his water.
I thought he meant the city lights.
When it continued down the street, his shoulders lowered.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’m a little nervous.”
That answer might have satisfied me if he hadn’t immediately checked his watch again.
“What was that?”
Our appetizers arrived.
Richard asked about my garden, but his gaze kept returning to the glass.
I tried to recapture the easy man from our messages.
He hadn’t heard a word.
His gaze kept returning to the glass.
Then he set down his fork.
“Marilyn, would you mind standing?”
“Standing?”
“Just for a moment. I’d love to see how tall you look in those heels.”
“Marilyn, would you mind standing?”
I glanced at the surrounding tables. “Right here?”
“Please.”
There was no admiration in his voice now.
The word came too quickly, as if we were running late.
“Right here?”
Still, refusing felt like turning a peculiar request into a scene.
I pushed back my chair.
“If someone asks me to change a ceiling fixture, you’re explaining.”
Refusing felt like turning a peculiar request into a scene.
In those heels, I stood close to seven feet tall, and people noticed immediately.
A little boy near the entrance stopped chewing until his mother redirected him toward his plate.
Richard did not look at me.
He stared through the window.
People noticed immediately.
A black SUV had stopped across the street.
Two men stepped onto the sidewalk.
One wore a dark jacket.
The other surveyed the restaurant entrance.
A black SUV had stopped across the street.
Richard’s hand closed around my wrist.
“Sit down. Now.”
His grip hurt.
“Richie, let go.”
He loosened his fingers but kept hold of me.
“Sit down. Now.”
With his free hand, he dropped several bills beside his untouched plate.
“We need to leave.”
“Who are those men?”
“I’ll explain outside.”
He pulled me toward a doorway beside the kitchen.
“We need to leave.”
My heels struck the tile sharply, each step reminding me how difficult running would be.
I could not tell whether Richard feared those men or intended to hand me over to someone waiting behind the building.
The restaurant manager stepped into our path.
Richard feared those men.
“Sir, guests aren’t permitted through the kitchen.”
