But what if . . .
I slid inside the ancient kitchen, my breath coming faster and faster. Like I might hyperventilate. Thankfully, the kitchen was empty . . . and contained paper bags.
Don’t freak out. Take a deep breath. This is all a mistake.
But how could I know for certain? If Julie and Bo Dixie suspected Scott was screwing around, other people might, too.
I pulled out my cell phone, wondering who I should call. Who among my friends might know something more than idle gossip?
Maybe Cyndi? She spent a lot of time on various charitable committees and always knew who bed-hopped around town. Her husband had cheated on her, so she’d totally rat out Scott.
I dialed her number while mentally composing what I’d say to her.
Hey, Cyndi, have you heard anything I should know about Scott and a certain someone?
Or get right down to business?
What’s up, Cyn? Is Scott banging someone on the side?
Not crass enough? Maybe I should scrap “banging” and go straight for “fucking.” I never used the f-word, even in private . . . but finding out one’s husband could be cheating called for strong language.
I didn’t have to decide whether to use the f-word or not because the call went to voice mail. Rather than leave a message, I clicked the END button. No need to act hastily. Once it was known I suspected Scott of cheating, I couldn’t take the accusation back. Most of my friends were married, and one casual word to their husbands would put the ball in Scott’s court. Men stuck together that way. They would think they’d done Scott a solid by giving him a heads-up about my suspicions.
I needed to think hard before I did anything I’d regret . . . better to keep my mouth shut and eyes open until I could sift fact from fiction.
Maybe I should confront him and see how he reacted.
Or pretend I didn’t hear what Julie and Bo Dixie had said. Avoidance. Safety. I was good at pretending . . .
“Hey.” Ruby opened the door, the tempered look on her face fading when she saw me plastered against the wall. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said too high pitched, like I’d been caught watching porn or eating a doughnut while on Weight Watchers. Note: I was always on Weight Watchers.
She studied me as I starfished the wall. “Your friend just bought the vintage Halston.”
“She’s not my friend.” I swallowed the acid searing the back of my throat and pushed off the wall, trying to look casual. “But Julie will look good in that dress, which may bring us more business.”
Ruby moved into the kitchen, tossing glances my way as she walked to the fridge. Like I was a ticking time bomb. Heck, maybe I was. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
Ruby looked worried, her small face furrowing, her brown eyes shifting over to the cold coffee in the urn and then back to me. She knew something was wrong.
And it was.
Or maybe not.
“You know, I don’t think that chicken salad agreed with me,” I lied, pressing my hand against my stomach.
At the same time, Ruby said, “Okay, I’m going to shift that display of plates to the corner hutch thing—”
“That’s a Louis XV sideboard. The plates are Théodore Haviland Limoges.” I straightened and tried to pretend I was okay.
“Yeah. That’s what I was going to say. Maybe you better go home? Jade is coming in later, and she can finish moving the boxes out of the closet—um, your office.” Ruby opened the fridge and pulled out a bottled water. Then she turned. “Can you drive yourself?”
“Yeah. Just feeling yucky.” Understatement of the year, that. I averted my eyes so she couldn’t see how freaked out I was.
’Cause I was.
I’d loved Scott ever since that night he’d walked up to my door wearing a paisley bow tie and a shit-eating grin, ready to take me to the debutante ball. He was five years older and so sophisticated. He made me laugh, taught me to sip good scotch, and relieved me of my virginity when I snuck him into my bedroom. He was my guy—father to my daughter, pea to my carrot, Michael to my Jackson 5.
So this couldn’t be happening. I was not that pitiful woman who happily went about life signing up to chair the Renaissance Fair committee, sipping margaritas while some bimbo shtupped my husband on the side. That faceless woman was pathetic, duped by kind words and flowers, oblivious to the rot in her marriage.
That woman was not Catherine Ann Crosby.
I was better than that.
Or I thought I was.
“Okay, then.” Ruby moved toward the open doorway that would take her back to the front desk, where she could survey the store. Any other day I would be worried about no customers. At present I was relieved.