She was half walking toward him when she stopped herself. That was Daniel’s chair. But this was her wedding, and she would not make a scene at her own altar. She forced herself to stay still and studied the man’s profile. Mid-thirties. Dark hair going grey at one temple. A faint scar behind his left ear. His suit didn’t fit him properly.
Richard squeezed her hand. She looked at him. His face was composed and careful—the expression he wore when he was managing something, holding it steady from the inside. Not alarmed. Not confused. Managing. He invited this man, Helen thought, and the idea was so strange she couldn’t yet find the emotion to match it.