How often his hand drifted toward his chest when he thought nobody was paying attention.
One afternoon, he caught me staring.
“Claire, stop worrying.”
“I wasn’t worrying.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“We’ve been married twenty-seven years. You’re still terrible at lying.”
Before I could answer, someone called from the other side of the fence.
“Looks like you’re getting quite a harvest.”
Our neighbor Monica stood there, peering through the branches.
She was around fifty and somehow always looked perfectly dressed, even while gardening.
Monica had known Daniel long before I had.
They’d grown up around the same people and had apparently dated briefly when they were young.
Daniel told me about it years ago when Monica inherited her parents’ house next door and moved back into the neighborhood.
I had never cared.
Whatever happened between them had been ancient history.
A few minutes later, a white van pulled into Monica’s driveway.
A young man got out carrying a toolbox.
He had visited several times that summer.
“Your plumber is back,” I said.
Monica glanced toward him.
