Page 116 of Meant to Be

“Veil, I think,” I said. “And maybe long white gloves? For a hint of glamour?”

“Oh,heavens,yes…and your bouquet?”

“Lilies of the valley,” I said. “They’re Joe’s favorite—and his mother carried them when she got married.”

“Fabulous,” he said. “A nod to the Kingsley tradition.”

“Yes,” I said. “But we really want to do things our way—”

“Yes,” he said. “A modern-day Cinderella.”

I laughed and asked if that made him my fairy godfather.

“Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Wilbur said, waving his pencil like a wand.

—

From that veryfirst sketch, my gown—and our wedding plans—came together quickly and covertly. We used our aliases whenever possible—and when it wasn’t possible, we had vendors sign ironclad confidentiality agreements. All the while, my happy streak continued.

More striking than my feelings of happiness, though, was the complete absence of self-doubt and my usual relentless brand of cynicism. For once, I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. Why had I always kept my expectations so low? I wondered. How could I have believed that true love didn’t exist in the world—or that somehow I wasn’t worthy of it? With Joe at my side, and his ring on my left hand (or my right when I was out in public), nothing could stop us.

Or so I thought until that cold but sunny March morning in the park.

I had just completed my two-loop jog around the Reservoir and was doing my usual stretching by the South Gate House when I saw a man approaching me. I’m not great at remembering faces, but I could have sworn I’d seen his before. He had an unusually full head of golden hair given his middle age—and combined with his strong jawline, blue eyes, and weathered skin, he gave me a Robert Redford vibe. A downtrodden version of Robert Redford, that is, wearing a baggy olive-green sweatsuit.

As he got closer, he kept his eyes on me, and I grew uneasy.There was no sign of a camera, but I suspected that he might be a reporter. Then again, I was wearing my standard park disguise of oversize sunglasses and one of Joe’s wool caps. I’d even tucked my ponytail into the back of my fleece jacket, as I’d learned it was my hair that typically gave me away. So it was a long shot that anyone would recognize me—unless he’d followed me from my place.

I told myself I was just being paranoid, that he was probably only innocently people-watching the way a lot of New Yorkers did. Sure enough, he stopped a few feet away from me, then leaned on the chain-link fence that Joe always referred to as a blight on the park and stared out over the water. Clearly, he was minding his own business, and I needed to do the same.

I finished my stretching, then walked past him, my thoughts moving on to my to-do list for the day. But no sooner was he gone from my mind than he reappeared out of the corner of my eye, walking alongside me in perfect lockstep. At that point, I got a chill. He wasdefinitelyfollowing me. The only question was whether he was a reporter—or some sort of stalker.

My heart pounding in my ears, I began to run. He did the same, then called out my name.Cate. Please stop. I just want to talk to you. Please.

His voice was low and calm, and there was something about the way he saidpleasethat defused my fear, replacing it with run-of-the-mill annoyance.

I stopped, turned, and looked him straight in the eye. “Stop following me!” I demanded. “Now!”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I need to talk to you. Just for a minute.Please.”

I shook my head, but he kept talking. “It’s not what you think. It’s not about Joe or anything like that,” he said.

“Then what’s it about?” I asked, my hands now on my hips.

“Can we sit down? Please?” he said, pointing over at a bench. “I promise I only need five minutes—”

I hesitated, wanting to say no. But my curiosity got the better of me, along with his blue eyes. They looked kind. I reminded myself that Ted Bundy had kind blue eyes, too, but still said, “Fine. Five minutes.”

He thanked me, then walked over to the bench, sitting on one end. I followed him, sitting on the other end, waiting for him to speak. I glanced at my watch, letting him know that he was on the clock.

Meanwhile, he crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, like he couldn’t quite get comfortable. Or maybe he was just stalling. Another few seconds passed as he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket and offered me one.

I shook my head.

“Is it okay if I smoke?” he asked, sounding really nervous—and not at all predatory.

I relaxed a bit more, then shrugged and said go ahead, watching as he lit his cigarette, took a long, slow drag, then exhaled.

“Okay. Do you mind telling me who the hell you are?” I said, waving away the smoke.

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