He was sixty-five, with kind eyes and hands dusted in clay. He didn't try to be charming—he just was. He saved her a seat. He remembered she liked peppermint tea. He laughed when her lopsided bowl collapsed on the wheel.

Their first kiss happened on a Tuesday, in the rain, after he helped her carry potting soil to her shed. He tucked a stray gray curl behind her ear and said, "I've been wanting to do this for weeks."

Eleanor laughed. "Then someone to grow older with."

Margaret smiled. "Darling, you are old."

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