But James was patient in the way that successful men learn to be.
And gradually, I began to relax.
He had a housekeeper, Maria, who came 3 days a week.
But on the other days, I found myself cooking for him.
It started small, making coffee in the morning, preparing simple lunches.
But James appreciated everything with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been eating catered meals and restaurant food for decades.
“This is incredible,” he said one evening, savoring the pot roast I’d made using Harold’s mother’s recipe. “I haven’t had a home-cooked meal like this in years.”
“It’s nothing fancy,” I protested.
But inside I glowed.
When was the last time someone had appreciated my cooking?
Marcus used to complain that I made the same five dishes over and over.
Sophia had once suggested I try more contemporary flavors for family dinners.
James shook his head.
“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
That word perfect should have made me uncomfortable.
I was 67 years old with gray roots showing and laugh lines that had turned into permanent creases.
My hands were spotted with age, my body soft in places that used to be firm.
I was anything but perfect.
But when James looked at me, I saw myself reflected in his eyes as someone beautiful, someone worthy of love and attention and gentle care.
We fell into routines that felt as natural as breathing.
Morning coffee together on the back porch where James would read business reports and I would watch the birds at his elaborate feeders.
Afternoon walks around his property where he showed me the gardens he’d planted himself and the greenhouse where he grew orchids as a hobby.
Evenings were for talking.
We had 50 years to catch up on, and we did it slowly, carefully, like archaeologists examining precious artifacts.
I told him about the lean years after Harold died when I’d worked at the department store to make ends meet.
About the loneliness of widowhood, the way people treat you like half a person once your husband is gone.
He told me about his business, how it had grown from a small construction company into a development empire with projects across three states, about the women he dated over the years.
Intelligent, accomplished women who looked perfect on his arm at charity gallas, but never made him feel complete.
“There was this one woman,” he said one evening as we sat by his fireplace, rain drumming against the windows. “Rebecca. She was a lawyer, brilliant, beautiful. Everyone said we were perfect for each other.”
I felt a stab of jealousy that surprised me with its intensity.
“What happened?”
“I proposed to her,” he said quietly. “On Christmas Eve 5 years ago. Big production, restaurant overlooking the city, ring from Tiffany, everything she’d said she wanted. And she said yes.”
“We planned the wedding for the following Christmas. But as the date got closer, I kept having this feeling that something was wrong. Not with her. She was everything anyone could want in a wife, but with me.”
He paused, staring into the fire.
“The night before the wedding, I called it off.”
“James, no. What did you tell her?”
“The truth.”
He looked at me then, his gray eyes serious.
“That I was still in love with a girl I’d known 50 years ago, and it wouldn’t be fair to marry her while my heart belonged to someone else.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“You called off your wedding because of me?”
“Because of the memory of you. Because of the possibility that someday, somehow, you might need me, and I’d be here waiting.”
I stared at him, this successful, handsome man who could have had anyone, and tried to process what he was telling me.
“That’s crazy.”
“Is it?”
He leaned forward, taking my hands in his.
“Is it any crazier than you keeping my business card in your wallet for 50 years?”
He was right.
Of course, we were both crazy, both living with ghosts of what might have been.
But somehow, against all odds, our particular brand of insanity had brought us back together.
3 weeks into my stay, Marcus called.
I was in James’ making dinner and humming to myself.
Actually, humming, something I hadn’t done in years, when my phone rang.
Marcus’s name on the screen made my stomach clench with familiar anxiety.
“Hi honey,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Mom.”
His tone was strange. Carefully controlled.
“I’ve been trying to reach you. Your phone keeps going straight to voicemail.”
That was true.
I’d been screening my calls, not ready to deal with whatever guilt or obligation Marcus might throw at me.
“I’ve been busy.”