Sheila Monroe worked in his department.
She was thirty-one, tall, polished, with a blonde bob that never seemed to move.
I didn’t think twice.
That is the part I still cannot forgive myself for.
I arrived at 7:40 in a navy dress from the clearance rack, carrying a dish of my deviled eggs because I had promised David.
The room smelled of garlic butter and red wine.
A jazz trio was tuning up in the corner.
About a hundred and twenty people stood in clusters, holding glasses.
And over all of it, I heard my husband laughing.
It was his real laugh, the one I had not heard in years.
I looked toward the bar.
Carl stood there in a gray blazer and an open white collar, one hand in his pocket.
His other arm was wrapped around Sheila’s waist.
Not near it.
Around it.
She wore a sky-blue linen dress, nude heels, and a small Tiffany heart tag at her throat that caught the candlelight every time she tipped her head back to laugh.
