The Proposal
After a year of dating, Arthur proposed. He held my hand and said, “I know we don’t have the kind of time younger couples imagine. I don’t want to waste what we have. Marry me, Caroline.”
I said yes almost instantly, tears in my eyes. At 72, when joy knocks, you don’t leave it standing on the porch.
A week before the wedding, Linda caught me alone in the kitchen. “Do you feel you know my father well?” she asked, wringing her hands.
“As well as one can know another person.”
“Don’t be so glib. Please. Has he ever mentioned—”
Arthur entered suddenly, holding wedding invitation mock-ups. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Linda said quickly, grabbing her purse. “I should be going.”
I didn’t see her again until the wedding.
The Wedding
We had a small ceremony in Arthur’s backyard. He looked handsome in navy, and I wore cream. I didn’t pretend to be anything other than what I was: a woman who had already loved deeply and somehow found room to love again.
As I held his hands, I felt excited. That’s what breaks my heart when I think back.
“I do,” I said before the pastor finished. People laughed softly. Arthur smiled. Just like that, I was a wife again.
But Linda stood apart, watching, her expression pained. Finally, I approached her. “Linda, it’s time we had a heart-to-heart.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, leading me aside.
Her face softened. “You’re a wonderful woman, Caroline, and I’m worried my father is deceiving you.”
“What are you talking about?”
Tears filled her eyes. “He’s not who he says he is. The man you married died 20 years ago. Come to the basement. I’ll show you everything.”
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