I met him six months earlier at a charity gala for the children’s hospital. I had been standing near the bar, trying to remember whether I had locked my car, when a tall man in a charcoal suit leaned closer and said, “You look like a woman who already regrets agreeing to come tonight.”
“That obvious?”
“Only to someone who feels the same way,” he said, and offered his hand. “Richard.”
He was 55, with silver at his temples. He was the kind of man who pulled out chairs without making a performance of it and remembered the next morning that I liked my coffee with one sugar and a splash of cream.
For six months, he was patient. He never pushed me. He brought soup when I had the flu and sent flowers to my office on an ordinary Tuesday, just because.
When he proposed on the back porch in September, I said yes before I had time to think too hard.
And then, slowly, I started thinking too hard.
It was the little things. The way he trailed his hand along the granite countertop one morning and said, “You really have built something beautiful here, Maggie. It would be a shame for anyone to disturb it.”
Or the evening he asked, very gently, over wine, “Do you have everything in one place, financially? Or scattered? I only ask because at our age, a single misstep can undo decades.”
I told myself he was being practical. Responsible.
But then there was the waitress at the bistro on Fifth. Twenty-six, maybe. He held her gaze one second too long when she set down his glass.
I noticed. He noticed me noticing. Then he smiled at me as though nothing had happened.
I looked down at the ring on my left hand. The diamond was a full carat, set in platinum, the kind of ring a man buys when he wants it to say something.
I turned it around my finger once. Then twice.
“He’s just thoughtful,” I said aloud, to no one. “He’s just careful with money. That’s a good thing.”
