Mom laughed.
He came back the following week.
And the week after that.
Soon he was bringing her coffee.
Then flowers.
Then one Saturday morning, I arrived at her house to discover Adrian repairing the loose porch railing she had been complaining about for two years.
He looked up from the screwdriver.
“Your mother said she was going to fix this herself.”
I looked at Eleanor.
She folded her arms.
“I was.”
Adrian smiled.
“I intervened before we had to involve emergency medicine.”
Mom swatted his shoulder.
I had not seen her flirt since my father died.
That night, I cried in my car.
Not because I was sad.
Because I had forgotten what she looked like when she felt chosen.
Within a few months, the red dress came out.
Then lipstick.
Then perfume.
She started checking her phone and smiling before opening messages.
Once, I caught her humming an old Sinatra song while arranging flowers.
I stood in the kitchen doorway and just listened.
Eleven years.
It had been eleven years since I heard that sound.
So yes, I wanted Adrian Vale to be exactly what he appeared to be.
A kind man who had somehow found my mother after both of them had already accepted that the romantic part of life was probably over.
There was only one problem.
The clock.
Claire noticed it before I did.
My daughter had inherited two things from me.
Suspicion.
And an unfortunate willingness to say exactly what everyone else was trying not to say.
One Sunday evening, she was setting the table when she announced:
“Grandma’s boyfriend is Cinderella.”
I looked up from the potatoes.
“What?”
“Cinderella.”
“Why?”
“Seven-thirty.”
She tapped her wrist.
“Every Sunday. Seven-thirty. Boom. Gone.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“He has things to do.”
“Every Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“At exactly the same time?”
“Basically.”
She folded a napkin.
“Maybe his carriage turns into a Honda.”
I tried not to laugh.
“Be nice.”
“I am nice.”
“You’re investigating him.”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re fifteen.”
“That doesn’t make clocks less real.”
