My four-inch heels made me impossible to miss beside the restaurant window. I thought Richard wanted me to feel beautiful on my first date in 12 years. Then a black SUV stopped, two men got out, and he dragged me toward the kitchen. I couldn’t tell whether he was saving me or leading me into a trap.
Richard checked his watch for the third time, then looked past my shoulder toward the restaurant window.
He was clearly nervous.
I just couldn’t tell whether it was because of me or something outside.
He was clearly nervous.
“Are you expecting someone, Richie?”
His fingers paused against the watchband. “No. I’m enjoying the evening.”
“You seem more interested in the street than your dinner.”
He gave me a quick smile and reached for his water.
“Are you expecting someone, Richie?”
The ice had melted, but he still stirred it with the straw.
Something about the way he kept watching the street bothered me.
I blamed it on first-date nerves.
At 74, after 12 years without romance, I was nervous too.
Something about the way he kept watching the street bothered me.
Besides, Richard had seemed different.
Most men noticed my height before they noticed anything else.
I had been six feet eight since I was 19, which meant I had heard every basketball joke and every question about the weather “up there.”
Richard had seemed different.
My husband, Thomas, had been five feet ten and entirely unimpressed by the difference.
When we danced, he rested his cheek against my shoulder and claimed I had the best view of his thinning hair.
We had 41 years together.
My husband, Thomas, had been five feet ten.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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