At My Daughter’s Colorado Ranch Wedding, She Slipp…

He was thirty-three, clean-cut, the kind of handsome that photographs well—strong jaw, too-white teeth, hair styled in that deliberate way that’s meant to look effortless. Gray sweater over a collared shirt, nice jeans, boots that looked like they’d only ever walked on polished floors.

He shook my hand firmly. “Mr. Caldwell,” he said.

“Thank you for having me. Claire’s told me so much about you.”

“Robert,” I corrected him. “Mr.

Caldwell makes me feel like I should be grading your homework.”

He laughed, easy and charming, and I watched the way Claire’s shoulders relaxed at the sound. She’d been nervously watching our interaction, her eyes jumping between us like she was waiting for an explosion. Inside, he complimented Linda’s old decor—the framed cross-stitch sayings, the landscape paintings she’d found at thrift stores and fallen in love with, the slightly faded floral curtains she never got around to replacing.