Our elderly neighbor invited us to dinner, but minutes after we arrived, my husband rushed into the kitchen and insisted we leave. Then he showed me a wedding photograph on her wall. The groom looked exactly like him, but I wasn’t the bride. What was going on?
“We have to leave. Right now.”
My husband, Johnny, appeared in our elderly neighbor’s kitchen with a look I’d never seen.
I was arranging plates for dinner.
Margaret, our hostess, was checking something in the oven.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
“Please, just come with me.”
He caught my hand and led me into the living room. His fingers were trembling.
He stopped in front of a photograph hanging beside the fireplace.
It showed a bride and groom standing under a flower-covered arch.
The groom was my husband.
Except I had never seen that wedding, and the woman beside him wasn’t me.
I turned toward Johnny.
“What is this?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
Before I could ask another question, Margaret appeared in the doorway.
She followed our gaze to the photograph, and her expression changed.
“Oh, Johnny,” she said quietly. “I hoped we’d have dinner first.”
Three weeks earlier, Johnny and I had moved into a neighborhood filled with old houses and enormous trees.
Margaret lived across the street in the prettiest house of all.
It was painted pale pink, with a carefully tended garden and little stone statues between the flowers.
Everyone called her the Pink Lady.
She was 75, widowed, and apparently comfortable enough to spend her days gardening, reading, and cooking.
She was also one of the few neighbors who welcomed us personally.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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