The first time Arthur asked me for a photograph of my face without makeup, I thought it was sweet.
The fourth time, I started wondering why.
“Another picture?” I teased over the phone.
“Please, Holly. I love seeing you exactly as you are.”
I laughed.
“Arthur, you already have three.”
“Not nearly enough.”
At seventy-eight, I was not accustomed to men asking for close-up photographs of my face.
Especially not my upper lip.
The hair there had darkened into a noticeable mustache when I was in my twenties.
For more than fifty years, I had learned every possible way to hide it.
Razors.
Creams.
Powder.
Different lighting.
Turning my face slightly in photographs.
Pretending not to notice when strangers stared.
Sometimes people caught themselves and looked away.
Sometimes they didn’t.
The worst part was not the hair itself.
It was knowing people often noticed it before they noticed me.
My husband Walter never did that.
Or if he noticed, he never made me feel ashamed.
Walter and I were married for forty-three years.
He kissed me good morning whether I had shaved or not.
Once, before a wedding, I stood in front of our bathroom mirror convinced my upper lip looked darker than usual.
“I’m not going,” I told him.
Walter appeared behind me holding my coat.
“Yes, you are.”
“I look terrible.”
“Holly.”
He put the coat around my shoulders.
“The bride invited you because she loves you. Nobody is hiring you to model lipstick.”
I went.
I still checked the mirror six times before we left.
But I went.
Walter died nine years ago.
Afterward, I stopped thinking about romance.
Loneliness was manageable.
The possibility of standing in front of another man and waiting to see whether he accepted my face was not.
Then my granddaughter decided she knew better.
“Grandma, you deserve company.”
“I have company.”
“You have a cat that doesn’t belong to you and a mailman who waves.”
“The cat visits regularly.”
She ignored me and opened a dating app.
Within twenty minutes, I had a profile.
Three days later, Arthur appeared.
He was eighty.
Widowed.
His first message asked whether I preferred doing crossword puzzles in pen or pencil.
“Pen,” I wrote back. “I’m old enough to live dangerously.”
His reply arrived seconds later.
“Then we’ll get along.”
We did.
At least at first.
Every evening, we exchanged messages.
Arthur remembered little things.
That I grew roses.
That my granddaughter had started a new job.
That a neighborhood cat slept beneath my hydrangeas.
He asked about Walter without acting jealous of a dead man.
And when I finally mentioned my facial hair, I held my breath before reading his reply.
“Please don’t ever shave it for me. I think you’re beautiful exactly as you are.”
I read the sentence three times.
Then I cried.
Not because Walter had failed to tell me the same thing.
He had.
For decades.
I cried because I realized how many years I had spent refusing to believe him.
Arthur brought lemon cookies to our first date because I had once mentioned they were my favorite.
He made me laugh.
He listened.
And when I instinctively touched my upper lip after catching him looking at me, he gently said:
“You don’t have to do that around me, Holly darling.”
I lowered my hand.
That felt enormous.
On our second date, he photographed me beside a rosebush.
That evening, he asked me to send another picture.
No makeup.
Just my face.
I sent it.
On our third date, his questions became more personal.
Had I always lived in the same city?
Where did I grow up?
Had my family moved often?
I answered casually.
But something about his interest stayed with me.
A few days later, Arthur invited me to dinner at his home.
Before hanging up, he asked again.
“One more picture?”
I laughed.
“At this rate, you’re going to open a Holly museum.”
“Just your face.”
“No makeup.”
I paused.
“Why are you so interested?”
His voice softened.
“Because I love your natural beauty.”
I wanted that answer to satisfy me.
So I sent the photograph.
But afterward, something bothered me.
Arthur had never asked for pictures of my garden.
Or my house.
Or my roses.
Only my face.
His home was beautiful.
Old bookshelves.
Dark wood.
Framed photographs.
Most showed a woman I assumed was his late wife.
Arthur greeted me with pink roses.
“For the woman who grows better ones.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He smiled.
Then he stared at my face.
Not rudely.
But long enough that my hand rose toward my upper lip again.
“Come in, Holly.”
A woman carrying two crystal glasses entered from the hallway.
“This is Helen,” Arthur said.
The woman looked at me.
One glass slipped from her hand.
Then the other.
Both shattered.
“Oh!”
I moved instinctively.
Helen didn’t.
She just stared at me.
Not at my dress.
Not at my shoes.
At my face.
“Are you all right?”
Her mouth opened.
“Holly?”
I froze.
“Yes?”
Arthur stepped quickly between us.
“Helen, please clean that up.”
She looked at him.
“Arthur…”
“Now.”
His tone was suddenly different.
Sharp.
Controlled.
I crouched to help with the glass.
Helen grabbed my hand.
“No, ma’am.”
Her eyes held mine.
“Please don’t.”
Arthur guided me toward the dining room.
“She’s having a difficult week.”
I glanced back.
Helen was still watching me.
And for the first time since meeting Arthur, I felt afraid.
Dinner did not make things better.
We had roast chicken and potatoes.
Arthur barely touched his food.
Instead, he started asking questions.
My childhood.
My parents.
Whether I had siblings.
Then he asked:
“Did your mother live in Chicago in 1965?”
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
“What?”
Arthur reached for his wine.
“I was just wondering.”
“How do you know my mother lived in Chicago?”
He smiled.
“Lucky guess.”
“No.”
I set down my fork.
“That is not a lucky guess.”
“You told me your family moved around.”
“I never told you Chicago.”
His smile disappeared.
That was the moment I knew something was wrong.
Arthur had known something about me before we met.
I just didn’t know what.
Before I could ask another question, his phone rang.
He checked the screen.
“I have to take this.”
He left the room.
A door closed down the hallway.
I sat alone.
Then I heard fast footsteps.
Helen appeared.
Her face was pale.
She leaned toward me.
“Ma’am, you need to leave.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Please.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Before he comes back.”
My stomach dropped.
“What is going on?”
“There’s something you need to know.”
She took my hand.
Then whispered:
“Arthur has been looking for you for years.”
I pulled back.
“What?”
“Years.”
“Why?”
Before she could answer, Arthur’s voice came from behind us.
“Helen.”
We turned.
He stood at the end of the hallway.
“What are you doing?”
Helen did not let go of my hand.
“I’m telling her.”
“Not like this.”
“Then how?”
Her voice rose.
“You’ve had three dates and an entire dinner.”
I looked between them.
“Someone is going to explain this right now.”
Arthur approached slowly.
“Holly, please don’t be frightened.”
I stared at him.
“That is possibly the worst thing you could say right now.”
Helen pointed toward the study.
“There’s something in there you need to see.”
Arthur looked panicked.
“Holly—”
“No.”
I stepped toward the study.
“Show me.”
The room smelled like old paper and furniture polish.
There was a cardboard box on the desk.
Arthur looked at it like it contained something dangerous.
Helen opened it.
Inside were old envelopes.
Newspaper clippings.
Photographs.
She pulled one photograph from a protective sleeve.
Then handed it to me.
I stopped breathing.
The picture showed a teenage girl sitting beneath a bright salon lamp.
Her hair was pinned away from her face.
Her hands were folded tightly in her lap.
I knew the girl before I recognized the dress.
It was me.
Seventeen years old.
Chicago.
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