He was sixty-two, with silver hair, calm blue eyes, and the quiet confidence of a man who had never needed to raise his voice to be noticed.
When he took a glass from my tray, he did not immediately turn away.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Elena.”
“You have been standing for hours, Elena. Are your feet hurting?”
The question startled me so much that the tray nearly slipped from my hand.
Most guests barely noticed the people serving them. Russell noticed the way I shifted my weight to ease the pain.
Before I could answer, he caught the attention of the catering manager and quietly arranged for me to sit behind a large column for a few minutes.
He brought me water himself.
We talked while the ballroom glittered around us.
He told me about his late wife’s garden. I told him about the mystery novel I read during my bus rides. He admitted that he had not eaten a homemade dinner in nearly three years, even though his kitchen was larger than my entire apartment.
He did not flirt with me.
He listened.
The next morning, he called the catering company and asked permission to contact me. Then he called me personally.
After that, he called almost every morning.
Sometimes we spoke for ten minutes. Sometimes an hour.
