My toes inched toward the back door. “Oh hey, I got a lead on an estate sale in Marshall that includes vintage clothing and some cast iron.” There. Talking about regular stuff made the panic subside. Sort of.
“Oh, well, that’s . . . nice.” She looked confused.
I tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. “Julia Kate has a tennis tournament in Lafayette, but Scott said he’d take her.”
And then it struck me.
Stephanie.
Olivia’s trim, perky tennis coach was named Stephanie. Could that be the Steph dropping to her knees? No way. Tennis Pro Steph was really nice to me.
I shook myself, focusing on Ruby, who was staring at me in expectation. “So I thought maybe we’d let Jade work the store and you can go with me to scout some inventory. If you want.” I managed not to choke when I thought about why Scott might have been volunteering to take our daughter on overnight tournaments.
Would a hot young tennis coach be banging a balding middle-aged man? I just couldn’t see it. Why would that cute, much younger woman want Scott?
“You want me to go with you?” Ruby sounded surprised.
Carolyn and I had spent many a Saturday morning scouring estate sales and random garage sales in older areas of the city. I had thought bringing Ruby along would allow me to know her better, maybe get her interested in the challenge of a good find. The younger woman had seemed to enjoy learning about our inventory, and I envisioned us armed with Starbucks and the will to find treasure among old vacuum cleaners and baby furniture. “If you’d like. I do a lot of ordering from England and France, but many customers like traditional southern pieces, too. Never know what you might find in Aunt Ethel’s attic.”
Ruby bit her lip. “Um, well, I thought I would . . . I mean, I sort of need the hours because—”
“You’ll be on the clock. Of course.”
Relief flashed in her eyes. “Great. Yeah, that would be good, then. Meet you here? Or . . .”
“Here is fine.” Nodding again, I played the role of bobblehead, wanting desperately to get the hell out of there, away from everyone.
I needed to think. To process. To snoop.
Reaching beneath the chipped kitchen cabinet where we stored our personal things, I grabbed my purse before saluting Ruby with a half smile, trying to pretend I was the woman I’d been fifteen minutes before. Before I’d been stupid enough to eavesdrop through a closet vent. Before Julie and Bo Dixie had cut the rope to my anchor, setting me adrift, pushing me toward hysteria. Or cold numbness.
Which of those was worse—to feel or not to feel?
But wait, I couldn’t do either yet. Not over unfounded gossip. In fact, Julie and Bo Dixie might have known I could hear them. Those two little schemers could have winked at each other and dreamed up my husband receiving fellatio from some heartless skank named Steph. They’d probably stifled their laughter, tickled Phi Mu pink to play such a horrible joke on me. In my mind I pictured them—thin, pretty women with their shoulders shaking in silent mirth, a gleam in their mean eyes.
Gotcha, Cricket.
Ruby jarred me from my ruminations by attempting a smile of her own, shadows of concern flickering in her brown eyes. I turned away so I wouldn’t cry.
“Hope you feel better soon,” Ruby said, her voice soft like the worn hoodie she slunk into work wearing each morning.
“Thanks. Later,” I replied, slipping out the back door, blinking against the outside world as I walked to the minivan Scott had bought me when Julia Kate was six years old. Back then I thought I was pregnant with baby number two. Another baby never came, but I still drove the van because it made car pool easier . . . even if it made me feel as sexy as my aunt Clarice’s girdle. Maybe I should drive the Spider more. Put the top down. Let the wind blow through my hair.
That’s probably why my husband was cheating on me. I chose comfort over sexiness every time. But who wanted to wax her hoo-ha and wear a thong? Truly?
I refocused because I had work to do. Scott would be at the bank until five o’clock. Then he’d toddle over to the club to oversee Julia Kate’s lesson . . . or get a blow job. Whichever.
I had at least three hours.
If Scott were cheating, there’d be signs. Maybe nothing too overt, but the man wasn’t the most detailed of people. He dropped deposit slips on the floorboard of his truck all the time, and he’d been known to leave his sand wedge on random holes at the club. Locking himself out of the house was at least a yearly occurrence. Careless wasn’t his middle name, but it was at least a first cousin.