When Thursday arrived, she wore her good pearls and the navy blue dress she’d bought for Harold’s retirement party—the one she’d never gotten to wear. She made scones. She set the table in the sunroom.
Eleanor looked at the half-eaten scones, the cooling teapot, the single imperfect lemon on its saucer.
Searching for gigolos in the greater Hartford area. Searching for- gigolos in-
Searching for reliable handyman in West Hartford. No. That wasn’t it. That was a lie she’d been telling herself for three years since Harold left her for his Pilates instructor. The gutters were fine. The boiler was fine. Eleanor was not fine.
She booked him for the following Thursday at 2:00 PM. For three hours. “Afternoon Tea and Conversation,” the package was called. When Thursday arrived, she wore her good pearls
Julian listened. Then he said, “I drove a taxi for forty-two years. For forty-two years, people got in my back seat and told me their secrets. Divorces, deaths, affairs, bankruptcies. And then they’d get out at the airport and I’d never see them again. Do you know what I learned?”
She was about to give up, to retreat to her needlepoint and the quiet dignity of disappointment, when she clicked a link on the third page of results. The site was called “Second Waltz.” No flash. No torsos. Just a photograph of a ballroom floor and a simple tagline: For those who remember how to dance. Eleanor looked at the half-eaten scones, the cooling
She took a sip of chamomile tea, the china cup rattling softly against its saucer. Then, with the decisive click of a woman who had survived two wars, three recessions, and one very limp fish of a husband, she typed the full sentence: