His children came to the engagement gathering.
We talked about nothing important: his late wife’s garden, the book I read on the bus, and how he had not eaten a homemade meal in three years, though his kitchen was the size of my apartment.
He called the next morning. Then he called every morning after that, gentle and punctual, as if kindness could become a habit.
Three months later, in a small restaurant where the waiter knew him, Russell slid a ring across the table. He said he was not asking me to love him, only to let him take care of me. I told myself I was being practical. Anyone drowning would grab a hand. I said yes, and some friends called me reckless.
His children came to the engagement gathering. His daughter, Marlene, did not shake my hand. She looked at me as if I had tracked mud across an antique rug.
