“Margaret,” Garrett said quietly, “Eleanor isn’t a topic of conversation. She’s my wife.”
“She’s your mistake!”
My husband placed his fork on the table. I had never seen his jaw tighten like that.
“You will NOT speak to her like that in my house!”
Later, I overheard Margaret in the hallway hissing about “Mom’s memory” and “that paperwork you promised.” Garrett answered in a low, controlled voice, but I could not make out his words. I went upstairs and acted as though I had heard nothing.
Several times that month, I noticed Garrett speaking on the phone in his study with the door partly closed. He was talking to someone named Whitfield. Papers covered his desk, along with a leather folder he quickly put away whenever I entered.
“Just tidying up some old paperwork,” he told me. “Nothing for you to fret about.”
“I’m not fretting. I’m nosy.”
