The kitchen was too clean again. I sat at the long oak table with a plate of roasted chicken and a glass of pinot, the overhead light catching the edge of the silverware, which I had polished out of habit, not necessity. Outside the window, the maples were turning, and I realized I had not spoken a word aloud since I locked the office that afternoon.
I was 53. Twice divorced.
A senior partner at a firm that paid me more than I had ever imagined earning, living in a four-bedroom house I had bought entirely on my own.
And on most nights, this was dinner.
I had not always lived this way.
My second husband left with most of my savings and a note that said he needed to “find himself.”
After that, I stopped looking.
Until Richard.
I met him six months ago at a charity gala for the children’s hospital. I had been standing near the bar, trying to remember if I had locked my car, when a tall man in a charcoal suit leaned in and said, “You look like a woman who already regrets agreeing to come tonight.”
