Deconstructed(3)

“And her daddy wouldn’t disapprove, either. You know he went plumb crazy and ran off with a stripper.”

I glared at the wall as if I could see Bo Dixie. That woman better thank her stars I wasn’t Clark Kent, or she’d be toast.

Gossip was the king of sports in Shreveport, and my daddy had been the talk of the town twenty-five years ago. Of course, now he lived in Florida with that very stripper and, if I were totally honest, was much happier than he’d ever been running the family-owned insurance company. I got along with Crystalle and her silly Pomeranian just fine now, but my father’s midlife crisis had hurt me for a long time. Lotsa therapy there.

“Poor Cricket,” Bo Dixie said. “And now the same thing’s happening to her.”

I froze.

Wait . . . what?

“You know Scott has to be cheating. He’s like a dog on a scent around Steph. It’s almost sad,” Bo Dixie continued.

Scott? Wait . . . my Scott?

“True. And I heard from Ron Meyer that Steph gives professional-level blow jobs. I bet Cricket has never hit her knees,” Julie said.

A Mack truck slammed into me.

Blink. Of. An. Eye.

I stumbled backward, smacking my elbow on the doorframe. Nerve-tingling pain shot up my arm. I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Or stop the vomit rising in my throat. My other hand clutched the material over my heart.

My husband was . . . getting blown?

By a Steph? Who was Steph?

Wait, I knew a ton of Stephanies, but they were all milquetoast women who would never mess with my husband. Or at least I didn’t think they would. But who really knew the people they talked to at bake sales or committee meetings? Someone could pray out of the same mouth she . . . she . . .

I couldn’t even think it.

“Ohmygod, this dress is perfect,” Julie said, as if the words she’d uttered about my husband were no big deal. Of course, she didn’t know I was standing on the other side of the wall trying to hold together the heart shredded by the bomb she’d tossed.

“I love that dress!” Bo Dixie squealed. “It looks just like something they wear on Mad Men. If you don’t want it, maybe I could—”

“You don’t wear a size six.”

“No shit. I wear a size two. But it can be altered,” Bo Dixie laughed.

I backed out of the closet, Julie’s and Bo Dixie’s voices fading as I zombie-walked to the kitchen, mind blown, stomach lurching, heart beating in my ears.

Scott wasn’t cheating.

The very idea was . . . preposterous. He wasn’t that kind of guy. I would know if Scott were up to something like doing someone on the side. Just like I knew when he snuck a cigar at the country club or ate the last of the fudge. The man was as subtle as an elephant sneaking into a room.

No. Scott wouldn’t cheat on me. We had just taken a romantic getaway to the Caribbean over the Christmas holidays, frolicking on the beach and having pretty decent pi?a coladas and sex. Oh, and not to mention, he and I had just taught a healthy-marriage class at our church last year. A man who taught other men how to be the husband God wanted didn’t go off and have an affair, for Christ’s sake. And he’d just been named the University Club’s Man of the Year. I had helped him write his acceptance speech. They were wrong. Just mistaking his friendly nature and lame flirting ability with something more nefarious.

But what if . . .

I slid inside the ancient kitchen, my breath coming faster and faster. Like I might hyperventilate. Thankfully, the kitchen was empty . . . and contained paper bags.

Don’t freak out. Take a deep breath. This is all a mistake.

But how could I know for certain? If Julie and Bo Dixie suspected Scott was screwing around, other people might, too.

I pulled out my cell phone, wondering who I should call. Who among my friends might know something more than idle gossip?

Maybe Cyndi? She spent a lot of time on various charitable committees and always knew who bed-hopped around town. Her husband had cheated on her, so she’d totally rat out Scott.

I dialed her number while mentally composing what I’d say to her.

Hey, Cyndi, have you heard anything I should know about Scott and a certain someone?

Or get right down to business?

What’s up, Cyn? Is Scott banging someone on the side?

Not crass enough? Maybe I should scrap “banging” and go straight for “fucking.” I never used the f-word, even in private . . . but finding out one’s husband could be cheating called for strong language.

I didn’t have to decide whether to use the f-word or not because the call went to voice mail. Rather than leave a message, I clicked the END button. No need to act hastily. Once it was known I suspected Scott of cheating, I couldn’t take the accusation back. Most of my friends were married, and one casual word to their husbands would put the ball in Scott’s court. Men stuck together that way. They would think they’d done Scott a solid by giving him a heads-up about my suspicions.

I needed to think hard before I did anything I’d regret . . . better to keep my mouth shut and eyes open until I could sift fact from fiction.

Maybe I should confront him and see how he reacted.

Or pretend I didn’t hear what Julie and Bo Dixie had said. Avoidance. Safety. I was good at pretending . . .

“Hey.” Ruby opened the door, the tempered look on her face fading when she saw me plastered against the wall. “What’s wrong?”