Deconstructed(4)

“Nothing,” I said too high pitched, like I’d been caught watching porn or eating a doughnut while on Weight Watchers. Note: I was always on Weight Watchers.

She studied me as I starfished the wall. “Your friend just bought the vintage Halston.”

“She’s not my friend.” I swallowed the acid searing the back of my throat and pushed off the wall, trying to look casual. “But Julie will look good in that dress, which may bring us more business.”

Ruby moved into the kitchen, tossing glances my way as she walked to the fridge. Like I was a ticking time bomb. Heck, maybe I was. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Ruby looked worried, her small face furrowing, her brown eyes shifting over to the cold coffee in the urn and then back to me. She knew something was wrong.

And it was.

Or maybe not.

“You know, I don’t think that chicken salad agreed with me,” I lied, pressing my hand against my stomach.

At the same time, Ruby said, “Okay, I’m going to shift that display of plates to the corner hutch thing—”

“That’s a Louis XV sideboard. The plates are Théodore Haviland Limoges.” I straightened and tried to pretend I was okay.

“Yeah. That’s what I was going to say. Maybe you better go home? Jade is coming in later, and she can finish moving the boxes out of the closet—um, your office.” Ruby opened the fridge and pulled out a bottled water. Then she turned. “Can you drive yourself?”

“Yeah. Just feeling yucky.” Understatement of the year, that. I averted my eyes so she couldn’t see how freaked out I was.

’Cause I was.

I’d loved Scott ever since that night he’d walked up to my door wearing a paisley bow tie and a shit-eating grin, ready to take me to the debutante ball. He was five years older and so sophisticated. He made me laugh, taught me to sip good scotch, and relieved me of my virginity when I snuck him into my bedroom. He was my guy—father to my daughter, pea to my carrot, Michael to my Jackson 5.

So this couldn’t be happening. I was not that pitiful woman who happily went about life signing up to chair the Renaissance Fair committee, sipping margaritas while some bimbo shtupped my husband on the side. That faceless woman was pathetic, duped by kind words and flowers, oblivious to the rot in her marriage.

That woman was not Catherine Ann Crosby.

I was better than that.

Or I thought I was.

“Okay, then.” Ruby moved toward the open doorway that would take her back to the front desk, where she could survey the store. Any other day I would be worried about no customers. At present I was relieved.

My toes inched toward the back door. “Oh hey, I got a lead on an estate sale in Marshall that includes vintage clothing and some cast iron.” There. Talking about regular stuff made the panic subside. Sort of.

“Oh, well, that’s . . . nice.” She looked confused.

I tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. “Julia Kate has a tennis tournament in Lafayette, but Scott said he’d take her.”

And then it struck me.

Stephanie.

Olivia’s trim, perky tennis coach was named Stephanie. Could that be the Steph dropping to her knees? No way. Tennis Pro Steph was really nice to me.

I shook myself, focusing on Ruby, who was staring at me in expectation. “So I thought maybe we’d let Jade work the store and you can go with me to scout some inventory. If you want.” I managed not to choke when I thought about why Scott might have been volunteering to take our daughter on overnight tournaments.

Would a hot young tennis coach be banging a balding middle-aged man? I just couldn’t see it. Why would that cute, much younger woman want Scott?

“You want me to go with you?” Ruby sounded surprised.

Carolyn and I had spent many a Saturday morning scouring estate sales and random garage sales in older areas of the city. I had thought bringing Ruby along would allow me to know her better, maybe get her interested in the challenge of a good find. The younger woman had seemed to enjoy learning about our inventory, and I envisioned us armed with Starbucks and the will to find treasure among old vacuum cleaners and baby furniture. “If you’d like. I do a lot of ordering from England and France, but many customers like traditional southern pieces, too. Never know what you might find in Aunt Ethel’s attic.”

Ruby bit her lip. “Um, well, I thought I would . . . I mean, I sort of need the hours because—”

“You’ll be on the clock. Of course.”

Relief flashed in her eyes. “Great. Yeah, that would be good, then. Meet you here? Or . . .”

“Here is fine.” Nodding again, I played the role of bobblehead, wanting desperately to get the hell out of there, away from everyone.

I needed to think. To process. To snoop.

Reaching beneath the chipped kitchen cabinet where we stored our personal things, I grabbed my purse before saluting Ruby with a half smile, trying to pretend I was the woman I’d been fifteen minutes before. Before I’d been stupid enough to eavesdrop through a closet vent. Before Julie and Bo Dixie had cut the rope to my anchor, setting me adrift, pushing me toward hysteria. Or cold numbness.

Which of those was worse—to feel or not to feel?

But wait, I couldn’t do either yet. Not over unfounded gossip. In fact, Julie and Bo Dixie might have known I could hear them. Those two little schemers could have winked at each other and dreamed up my husband receiving fellatio from some heartless skank named Steph. They’d probably stifled their laughter, tickled Phi Mu pink to play such a horrible joke on me. In my mind I pictured them—thin, pretty women with their shoulders shaking in silent mirth, a gleam in their mean eyes.