Then the scarf.
Then the wine.
Then the carefully arranged notes and other gifts she’d spent months delivering to my husband.
Her lips parted.
She lifted the scarf with trembling fingers.
“This is mine.”
“Yes,” I said pleasantly. “That’s why I brought it back.”
She looked at Irvin.
“You gave her these?”
“I brought them home,” he replied. “Every single one.”
“You opened my gifts?”
“No.”
“You read my notes?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know what’s in them?”
Irvin’s voice remained calm.
“Because you told me what some of them meant. And because I didn’t need to read the rest to understand that you were trying to start something inappropriate.”
Vanessa looked around the yard.
People were watching her now, not with admiration but with the uncomfortable fascination reserved for someone whose private behavior has suddenly become public knowledge.
She turned back to me.
“You went through my things!”
