“They need what I can give them. That’s different.”
I didn’t understand what he meant at the time.
I would later.
Three months after we met, Richard proposed.
There was no elaborate restaurant.
No orchestra.
No audience.
He took me to the garden behind his house.
It was raining lightly.
We stood beneath a covered terrace while he held a small velvet box.
“I know what people will say,” he told me.
“So do I.”
“They’ll say you’re marrying me because I’m wealthy.”
I looked at him.
“Are you asking me to marry you because I’m young?”
He smiled.
“No.”
“Then I suppose we’re both going to hear things.”
He laughed.
Then his expression became serious.
“I don’t want someone who needs my money.”
I swallowed.
“I do need your money.”
He looked surprised.
I continued before he could answer.
“I don’t want to lie to you. My life is difficult. Your money would change my life.”
He nodded slowly.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being honest.”
I looked down at the ring.
“I also need something else.”
“What?”
“You.”
He was quiet for several seconds.
Then he took my hand.
“That’s the part I was hoping you’d say.”
We got married six weeks later.
