Jason thought he was the one playing a clever game when he courted a wealthy 60-year-old widow for her inheritance. But Eleanor Parker had spent too many years reading people too well, and she turned his little scheme into a night he would remember for the rest of his life.
“This is a nightmare,” Jason muttered under his breath, staring at the restaurant entrance.
Across from him, Eleanor lifted her wineglass and smiled as if she had not heard a word.
He had arrived 20 minutes early in his best suit, the one he only wore to funerals and job interviews. He had checked his reflection three times in the dark window by the hostess stand.
He had practiced the smile, voice, and look of tender devotion.
And in his jacket pocket sat a 15-dollar ring from a costume jewelry shop downtown.
From a distance, his love and devotion looked convincing.
Up close, maybe not.
But Jason had not planned on Eleanor looking too closely.
She was 60, elegant, widowed, and so rich that people still talked about her house the way they talked about landmarks. Her estate sat on the hill at the edge of town, all white columns and gardens and old-money silence.
She donated to schools, paid for surgeries for people who could not afford them, sent flowers to funerals, baked cookies for neighborhood kids, and somehow remembered every single name.
She was the sort of woman people called good behind her back.
Jason had noticed something else.
She lived alone.
At first, he just brought letters and packages to her door. Then he lingered.
A polite question here, a compliment there, an offer to carry a heavy box, and another to help move patio furniture before a storm.
Eleanor had always thanked him kindly.
Jason liked to tell himself he was not a bad person. Just cornered. His father had left years earlier.
His mother worked double shifts until arthritis twisted her hands.
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