My misgivings should have been dispelled by witnessing my mother laugh,
get dressed up, and fall in love once more after so many years of loneliness. Rather, every time Richard showed up for supper, one question remained unanswered.
It had been eleven years since my mother had hummed! Not since Dad passed away. On Sunday afternoon, however, she was standing in front of her bedroom mirror, putting on the pearl earrings her father had
given her for their 30th anniversary while humming an old Sinatra song.
I folded my arms and tried not to cry as I observed her from the doorway.
“Mom, you look beautiful!”
“Oh, stop,” she murmured, grinning and dismissing me. “It’s just dinner, Avery.”
Not since Dad passed away.
“You’re even wearing the red dress!”
“I’m allowed to wear the red dress.”
“You bought that red dress recently, and it’s already been out of the closet more than my winter coat!”
Mom’s chuckle was so pleasant that I nearly forgot why I had come upstairs in the first place. which was to snoop, to be honest.
“I’m allowed to wear the red dress.”
After eleven years of being by herself, my mom was now floating around the home like a shampoo commercial.
Richard was the name of the cause. He met her at the neighborhood gardening club, was 52 years old, and, as far as we knew, lived alone. He praised her tomato plants.
He was bringing her sunflowers in less than a month.
She was drifting through the home.
Without being asked, he fixed her porch railing in less than two months. He recalled that my fifteen-year-
old daughter Chloe enjoyed mint chocolate chip and that he would always bring her a pint.
I saw a version of Mom in a few of months that I had assumed we had lost with Dad. She resumed wearing perfume, purchased the red dress, and occasionally grinned like a teenager at her phone.
I wanted to be fond of him. I did, in fact.
Her porch railing had been restored by him.
I said, “So, what time is he coming?”
“Five. And he’ll need to leave by 7:30 p.m. again, so let’s eat by six.”
Halfway to the stairs, I stopped.
“Seven-thirty again?”
“Avery.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
“What time is he coming?”
Chloe was laying the table downstairs with the nice china that Mom had only brought out for company. With the obstinate chin of her father and the cheekbones of her grandmother, my daughter had been
observing Richard lately like a cat eyeing a screen door.
Chloe said, “Cinderella’s coming to dinner,” while folding a napkin into a shape resembling a swan.
“Be nice.”
“I’m being nice. I’m just saying. The man runs on a Cinderella schedule.”
“Cinderella’s coming to dinner.”
“Chloe.”
She held up the twisted napkin swan and peered at it, saying, “What?! He does! Every Sunday, boom, 7:30 p.m., out the door like the pumpkin’s about to blow.” “I’m only half joking, by the way.”
She wasn’t wrong, so I shut my lips after opening it to defend him.
After six months of Sunday dinners, the man had never stayed until 7:30 p.m. He was always courteous
about it. had a purpose at all times. However, the explanations continued to change, as if a new hand were dealt each week.
I started to defend him.
I said, “Set out the water glasses,” instead.
“Deflection…”
I looked at my daughter.
Chloe whistled softly as Mom descended the stairs. Mom wondered if her lipstick was too much, swatted at her, and flushed like a schoolgirl. It wasn’t. It was flawless.
Compared to Christmas, she appeared ten years younger!
I looked at my daughter.
At precisely five o’clock in the evening, Richard showed up with a bottle of the sparkling grape juice Chloe preferred because she was too young for wine, along with a bouquet of daisies. That lovely gentlemen
asked my daughter about her history project, shook my hand, and planted a kiss on my mother’s face.
On paper, he was fantastic.
But he would leave at 7:29 p.m.
On paper, he was fantastic.
While Richard and Mom were in the living room, Chloe grabbed my attention across the kitchen, but she remained silent. She just arched one eyebrow so high it almost touched her hairline, tapped her wrist, and
mouthed the words seven-three-zero.
A tiny, tight knot had begun to tug someplace in my chest, so I turned back to the stove and stirred the gravy that didn’t need stirring.
I glanced across the kitchen at Chloe.
On the Sunday following Chloe’s little Cinderella joke, I observed Richard through a two-way mirror like a lady examining a suspect. In between slices, he was checking his watch while expertly cutting the roast.
I slid the potatoes across and said, “Big plans tonight, Richard?”
“Oh, nothing exciting. I’ve got a client in Singapore, believe it or not. Eight o’clock call.”
Halfway to her mouth, Chloe’s fork stopped.
Like a lady examining a suspect, I observed Richard.
“Singapore? On a Sunday?”
“Markets never sleep, kiddo.”
“Cool,” my daughter remarked. “Neither do plumbers, apparently.”
I almost choked on my water. Richard had hurried out two weeks prior, saying a plumber would be at his
house at nine o’clock. At that one, even Mom had blinked.
Although Richard dismissed it with a joke, there was a rigidity around his eyes that wasn’t present when he first started visiting.
I almost choked on my water.
He had his leather briefcase by 7:25 p.m. the following Sunday. It was the neighbor this time.
“Mr. Mendez can’t get his blood pressure pills open. Arthritis. I told him I’d swing by.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” Mom glowingly remarked.
I repeated, “So sweet,” and Chloe gave me a bruising kick beneath the table.
“I told him I’d swing by.”
By 7:30 p.m., Richard had the leather satchel tucked under his arm as though it contained state secrets, and the porch light behind him was clicking on. Each and every Sunday. similar to clockwork. We were unable to
see, like a man on a leash.
I trapped Mom by the sink after doing the dishes.
“Mom, can I ask you something without you getting mad?”
“That’s usually a great start, Avery.”
Mom was stuck at the sink because of me.
“Six months you’ve been dating this man. Have you been inside his house? Even once? Have you seen his kitchen? His couch? His mailbox?”
She used more force than the dishes needed to turn on the faucet.
“He’s private.”
“He’s evasive.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Is there? Because Chloe says twice now she’s watched him turn south after dinner, and he supposedly lives
20 minutes north.”
Mom’s shoulders tightened. With a sharp little clink, she put the plate down.
“He’s evasive.”
“I trust him, Avery.”
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