“Maybe one of those Caribbean ones,” he said in a suspiciously cheerful voice. “While we can still get around, we ought to enjoy ourselves, right?”
That stung. I had suggested a cruise myself the previous spring and quietly started setting money aside for it. Ken had waved the idea off as boring. And now suddenly he was offering it like a generous husband.
I turned and looked out the passenger window. Young families pushed strollers along the sidewalk. Teenagers zipped by on scooters. Couples walked hand in hand. I found myself wondering how many of them were living in two realities at once.
“I’ll think about it,” I said evenly. Back home, he settled into his recliner in front of the television as if nothing in the world mattered more than sports highlights.
I brought him a mug of tea and stood by the kitchen window. That was when I realized I could not live another day not knowing her name. I needed a real person, not a shadow.
I told Ken I was going over to Rita’s to talk about flowers for the party. Instead, I got in my car and drove straight back to the gated neighborhood.
It was quiet there on a Sunday, almost unnaturally so. A landscaper was mowing a lawn on the next property. The security guard in the gatehouse was scrolling on his phone. Water from the fountain in front of the house made a soft steady sound.
I parked a little way off and pretended to text. I waited an hour and a half before the front door finally opened.
A woman came out who was younger than me, yes, but not young. Maybe late fifties. Stylish. Well-kept. She wore expensive white linen pants and a silk blouse. Her hair was cut in a perfect bob, and a string of pearls rested at her throat.
She moved with the easy confidence of someone who never checks the total at the register. She got into a polished sedan parked nearest the flower bed and drove toward downtown. I followed at a distance.
She stopped at an upscale shopping center in the city. A valet took her keys. She walked inside like she owned the place. I tucked my plain handbag under my arm, smoothed my dress, and followed.
The place was all marble floors and cold air-conditioning and storefronts full of clothes that cost more than my monthly Social Security check. She went into a high-end boutique I knew only from magazine ads.
Inside, she browsed with a practiced eye and held up a deep blue dress against herself. A sales associate hurried over with the kind of polished smile you only get in expensive stores.
“Mrs. Preston, it’s so lovely to see you again,” the girl said. “How is Dr. Preston doing?” “Buried in patients as usual,” the woman replied with a sigh.
She said she was looking for a dress for a charity event at their private clinic. “If I’m going to ask people for donations, I might as well look the part,” she joked. They both laughed.
I stood nearby pretending to study handbags while cold dread spread through me. Now I knew her name: Elizabeth Preston. And I knew she was married to a successful doctor.
So this wasn’t some foolish fling with a lonely widow or a younger woman looking for attention. This was a polished, established woman with a full life of her own.
I followed her through the shopping center for a while longer, though “followed” makes it sound braver than it felt. Really, I trailed behind her with my stomach in knots and my nerves shot.
She made a few expensive purchases and accepted the shopping bags without a blink. Then she sat down at a café on the upper level and ordered a glass of white wine.
She checked her gold watch and waited. I already knew who for. But when I saw Ken walking toward her anyway, my heart still lurched.
He bent and kissed her on the cheek just a little too long for daylight and public seating. I ducked behind a large potted palm like a fool in a sitcom. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I didn’t need to.
Their hands found each other across the table. He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that made me feel physically ill. She laughed softly, the kind of laugh a woman gives when she feels chosen.
A security guard glanced at me suspiciously from across the atrium. I gave up my hiding place and walked out as fast as I could without running.
Outside, the heat hit me like a wall. I made it to my car on autopilot. My hands shook, but I held the wheel tight.
By the time I turned onto our street, Ken’s cherry-red car was already back under Doris’s carport, gleaming innocently in the sun like it had never gone anywhere at all.
Through the open kitchen window I could see his shadow moving around inside our house. He was making tea and slicing bread as calmly as if he’d spent the day at Home Depot.
I stood on my own front step and understood that I was no longer the same woman who had left that morning. I took a breath and went in.
He turned with that same easy smile. “Ellie, where’ve you been so long? Still at Rita’s?” “Yes,” I said, setting my bag down in the hall. “We worked out the flowers for the hall.”
“That’s my girl,” he said warmly. “So what’s for supper?” I opened the refrigerator and stared at the shelves until my voice came out steady.
“Fried potatoes with mushrooms and a salad,” I said. “Will that do?” “Of course it will,” he said, settling into his chair. I could hear the newspaper crackle in his hands….
