“Meaningful conversations about what?” I wondered. “My thrilling stamp collection? My weekly bridge‑club scandals?”

“I can hardly contain my excitement,” I said, fanning myself with my napkin like a Southern belle having the vapors.

As he glided away to charm more promising prospects, I caught my reflection in that mirror again—a silver‑haired woman in understated clothes sitting alone behind enough flowers to stock a botanical garden. Someone who looked like she probably shopped with coupons and worried about heating bills. Exactly the image I’d been cultivating for two years.

During the father‑daughter dance, I slipped away to powder my nose in the marble ladies’ room. In that fancy sanctuary, I touched up my lipstick and practiced my harmless elderly‑widow expression in the mirror. When I returned to my floral fortress, Marcus was charming the elderly couple next to me, the Hendersons from Robert’s old firm. They were eating up his attention like it was wedding cake.

“Mrs. Hartley,” he said, catching my eye as I sat down. “Really looking forward to Thursday.”

“So am I, dear. So am I.”