The society matrons who had been whispering about my inferior status were now craning their necks for a better look at the distinguished gentleman who was treating me with such obvious respect and affection.
When the minister pronounced Brandon and Vivien, husband and wife, mysterious ally stood and offered me his arm like a proper gentleman.
“Shall we proceed to the reception, my dear Eleanor?”
He knew my name.
This was getting more interesting by the minute.
As we walked toward the reception tent, I could feel eyes following us.
The same people who had dismissed me 20 minutes earlier were now regarding me with curiosity and what looked suspiciously like newfound respect.
“You never told me your name,” I said quietly as we made our way across the manicured lawn.
He smiled, a expression that transformed his entire face.
“Theodore Blackwood, but you used to call me Theo.”
The world tilted slightly on its axis.
Theo.
My Theo from 50 years ago.
Theodore Blackwood.
The name hit me like a physical blow, carrying with it a flood of memories I’d carefully locked away decades ago.
I stopped walking so abruptly that several guests nearly collided with us.
“Theo?”
My voice came out as barely a whisper.
“But that’s impossible. You’re supposed to be in Europe. You’re supposed to be married with grandchildren by now.”
He guided me to a quiet corner of the garden, away from the crowd streaming toward the reception tent.
Up close, I could see the boy I’d loved desperately when I was 18 years old.
His eyes were the same startling blue, though now framed by lines that spoke of years I hadn’t shared with him.
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