“Seven o’clock,” Simon repeats. “I will be there with the package.” There is a click and the line goes dead.

CHAPTER 26

I stand motionless, still holding the receiver. Who was Simon speaking with? I replay the conversation in my mind, hearing the young woman’s voice. It surely did not belong to Biddie Newman, the secretary who had been assigned to help Simon during my office leave and who had been with the department for nearly forty years. Perhaps one of the other assistants in our department, calling to convey a message. I run through each of them in my head, but all except me are British-born. None of them have an accent like the woman on the phone. Who is she and why is Simon calling her?

I replace the receiver and walk to the oven, considering the question. I could just ask Simon, I rationalize as I take the roast from the oven, making up two plates of meat, potatoes and vegetables. I put one in the icebox, carry the other to the parlor. We have no secrets at work, at least none that I know of—even during my sabbatical, he’s kept me updated about events at the office. But to ask, I would have to admit that I heard him on the phone. Though it was inadvertent, I feel somehow guilty about eavesdropping.

It has to be someone from the office, I decide, cutting a piece of roast. Simon does not have any other friends or associates that I know of…My hand stops midair, brown gravy dripping onto the plate. That I know of. Is he having an affair?

I turn the thought over in my mind, considering it for the first time. Don’t be silly, I tell myself, setting down the fork. Simon is so cold and distant, so focused on his work. It is hard to imagine him summoning the passion for any woman.

But it is not impossible, I admit reluctantly. Suddenly I am not hungry. I carry my plate back into the kitchen, scrape my uneaten dinner into the garbage bin. Perhaps he is so disinterested in me because he has feelings for another. He has been working later at the office since my return, many nights not returning until after I am asleep. And then there was that business trip to Brussels several months ago…Suspicion bubbles in my mind.

I then remember Simon’s strange appearance when he walked into the kitchen earlier, the unfamiliar scent as he kissed me hello. I walk quickly down the hallway to the coatrack that stands by the front door and lift Simon’s overcoat from the hook, bringing it to my nose. An unmistakable clover smell lingers by the collar. The perfume of another woman.

It could be nothing, I tell myself, replacing the coat. A female passenger pressed too close on the bus, her scent lingering. But that does not explain the phone call. I walk back to the kitchen. An affair. I wash the dishes, still considering the idea. An hour ago the notion was inconceivable. What if it is true? I hardly have the right to be angry, after all that happened with Paul. It would almost be ironic. But I nevertheless feel a stab of jealousy. Who is this woman who Simon prefers to me?

You cheated, too, I remind myself. But Paul and I were different, two old lovers finding each other for a single moment in time. Our coupling was unplanned, instinctive. I imagine Simon’s affair to be calculated and sustained. Furtive plans made for secret meetings. Lies told to cover his tracks. Anger rises in me. Has Simon been playing me for a fool? An hour ago, I turned away Paul on the phone. And for what? Is my marriage to Simon a charade?

Easy, I remind myself as I dry the last of the plates. You don’t know for sure that Simon is having an affair. A few words on the phone, some perfume. That is not proof. But doubt nags at me harder now. I need to find out.

I turn out the kitchen light and make my way upstairs. Tiptoeing into Rachel’s room, I reach into her crib and place my hand on her back lightly so as not to wake her, feeling her gentle, even breathing. Farther down the hall, the door to Simon’s study is closed. I hesitate, looking at the thin shaft of light beneath the doorway. Suddenly I am seized with the urge to burst in and confront him with my suspicions. I take a step toward the study, then stop again. Simon would never admit to having an affair. I can almost imagine his calm denial, so matter-of-fact as to make me feel foolish. No, if I am to find proof, I will have to manage another way.

I continue down the hall to our bedroom, my mind turning as I wash and climb into bed. I pick up the book that sits on my nightstand, but I am too agitated to read. I look around our bedroom at Simon’s nightstand, his armoire. If there is evidence of Simon’s infidelity, where would it be hidden? I do not dare look now, of course, but perhaps tomorrow when he is at work. I force myself to turn to the book until at last my eyes grow heavy and I drift to sleep.

I do not hear Simon come to bed. When I awake in the morning, the duvet on his side is freshly made, as though he had not bothered to climb underneath. The events of the previous night, my suspicions about Simon, come rushing back to me. Perhaps it is all in my head, I think, staring up at the ceiling. And even if it is not, do I really want to know? “Borrowing trouble,” my mother would have called it. My life is safe here, stable. I could leave well enough alone. Simon would never ask for a divorce—the scandal would be too much for his career. A sensible woman would not dig for answers. But I need to find out.

I go to Rachel, who is sitting in her crib, babbling to herself. Carrying her downstairs, I find Simon’s breakfast dishes washed and stacked. There is a hastily scribbled note on the table: Early meeting. I look at the clock above the stove. Six-fifty. Uneasiness rises in me. Simon always leaves at exactly seven-twenty. I wonder if he knows that I heard him on the phone last night, senses my suspicions and is avoiding me.

I carry Rachel over to her high chair and put some dried cereal on the tray in front of her. At seven-thirty, there is a noise at the front door. “Good morning,” Delia singsongs from the foyer. I look over to the counter where her glasses still sit. In my confusion over hearing Simon on the phone, I forgot to call her and tell her they were here.

Delia comes into the kitchen wearing a pair of spectacles I do not recognize. I hold the ones she left behind out to her. “I was wondering where those were!” Delia exclaims.

“I meant to call you and tell you they were here.”

“No worries. Fortunately I had my old pair.” Her sleeve is damp as she takes the glasses from me, replacing the older ones and tucking them into her bag. I look out the window over the sink, noticing for the first time the rain that falls in heavy sheets. My heart sinks. I had hoped that Delia would take Rachel to the park, giving me a chance to look through Simon’s belongings. Perhaps the weather will change.

But the sky remains solid gray throughout the morning. Delia takes Rachel back up to her bedroom to play and I join them for a while, trying to focus on the building blocks Rachel loves so much. Later, I leave them, still playing, and retreat to the parlor with my book. But I stare out the window at the rain-soaked street, unable to concentrate. Is Simon really at work, I wonder, or off somewhere with that woman? For a minute I consider calling him at the office to see. But a call from me would be unusual and would surely make him suspicious.

A short while later, Delia carries Rachel back downstairs and deposits her on my lap. “I’ll make lunch,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen. I wrap my arms around Rachel, burying my nose in her dark curls.

I think then of Paul. If Simon really is having an affair and I confronted him, perhaps he would leave me, after all. Maybe then Paul and I could be together. A shiver runs through me. The idea is almost inconceivable. Would Paul even still want me under such circumstances? He might not even realize that Rachel is his, I remind myself. A romantic affair while on the run in Germany is one thing. A relationship with a divorced woman who has a young child is quite another.