Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
“Well, being a single mother-to-be must be difficult,” Richard said, his voice flat and professional. “But she is strong. She will manage.”
“She has good support,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “I am sure she does.”
He changed the subject quickly, talking about a commercial listing in Bellevue that was about to close, his fast, corporate jargon filling the silence.
I listened, nodding in the right places, while the weight of his secrets pressed against my chest.
We finished dinner, and Richard paid the bill, using his personal credit card with a quick, decisive flourish.
The drive back to our craftsman home in Queen Anne was quiet, the windshield wipers humming a steady rhythm against the glass.
Richard parked the Volvo in the driveway and turned off the engine, the sudden silence inside the car heavy and thick.
“We are home,” he said, reaching over to pat my knee.
“Yes,” I said.
We walked up the stone steps together, the rain dripping from the dark leaves of the rhododendrons.
Inside, the house was dark and quiet. Richard hung his coat in the entryway closet and stretched his arms.
