“Then they can enjoy it with you,” he said. “Come on in. I’ll wait here.”
“Damon, please. You can’t stay in the car.”
He let out a short, dry laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m not going to walk in there next to you and look like some desperate prankster,” he said.
It took my breath away, but I forced myself to press the door handle.
“I’m going in,” I said, pressing the plastic latch.
The cold autumn air immediately hit me in the face, carrying the smell of damp earth and smoke from nearby houses. Damon unbuckled his seatbelt with a loud click and opened the door, stepping out onto the gravel driveway.
He didn’t come to my side of the car to help me. He stood by the open door, his gray hair blowing in the wind, and he glared at the roof of the sedan.
“Look at you, Elena,” he said, his voice rising above the sound of an SUV passing on Main Street.
“Please, Damon, keep your voice down,” I whispered as I stepped onto the concrete curb.
The wind whipped the hem of my dress, hugging the emerald silk tightly around my knees. I pulled my coat tighter around me, but the front remained open, exposing the fabric.
“You look like you’re trying to prove something to the world,” he said, his eyes flicking distastefully to the light fabric. “Like you want all the guys to stare at you.”
“That’s not true,” I said, feeling a tightness in my chest. “I just wanted to wear something that would make me feel like myself again. Not just a woman who cleans the kitchen and folds laundry.”
He took a step toward me, his face close enough that I could smell the peppermint on his breath.
“You’re fifty, Elena. People our age don’t need to be seen. They need to be dignified.”
“And you think this is dishonorable?”
“I think it’s a desperate attempt to hold on to something you lost twenty years ago,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
“Everyone in this dining hall will be wondering what you’re trying to prove,” he said, approaching me along the narrow sidewalk. “At your age, wearing something so bright. It’s embarrassing.”
Two people sitting at a small table on the restaurant’s fenced patio turned their heads in our direction. I didn’t recognize them, but the older woman adjusted her reading glasses to get a better look at us, standing by a low boxwood hedge.
“Today marks my fifty-first year,” I said, keeping my arms at my sides. “I wanted to wear something other than black or navy.”
“It’s not about the color,” Damon said, his eyes scanning my face, searching for the familiar dip in my chin that usually signaled my surrender. “It’s about you thinking you can change just because of a number on a calendar.”
I stepped back, my heel catching lightly on the edge of a concrete planter full of wilting marigolds.
“Are you coming in or not?” I asked.
He looked at the brass door, then back at me, and his face hardened into the expression he got when the monthly bills were higher than he wanted.
“I’ve given you my terms,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his keys and letting them jingle in his hand. “You want to make a spectacle of yourself, do it yourself.”
He returned to the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut with a loud bang that shook the passenger-side window.
I stood on the cold sidewalk, the wind whipping the green silk around my knees. Our car’s headlights flickered, cutting through the autumn dusk and bathing my legs in yellow light.
He shifted into reverse, the reverse lights casting a harsh white glow on the brick wall behind the parking spaces. The tires slowly crunched over the gravel as he pulled out of the space.
