Page 1 of Minted

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Barbara

Ten months ago, I saw my husband’s favorite suit in the pile of our things that were earmarked for Goodwill.

“How’d you get in there?” I pulled it out, whipping it a time or two to free the wrinkles it had accidentally caught by being folded. I still remembered the time I spent haggling with the clerk—it was from the prior season, but it looked amazing on him. I managed to get the price down, down, down, until my husband walked out with the nicest suit I’d ever seen. . .for a price we could actually afford.

And now that same designer label was staring at me from our donation box. It felt significant for some reason.

“This almost got donated.” I laughed as I handed it back to him. “Can you even imagine?”

Only, his chuckle when he took it and hung it on his side of the closet wasn’t quite right.

A few weeks later, when I drop an earring and watch it roll across the floor of our closet and onto his side, I get down on my hands and knees and follow it. When I stand up, my eyes are drawn to the rows and rows of suits hanging in his side of the closet. Plaid. Tweed. Grey. Tan. Striped. He has one of each, or in some instances, several. As a Brit, he can really wear almost anything and pull it off. Because he works in an office everyday—our office—he has amassed a metric ton of nice suits.

But the nicest one, the only designer suit he owns, is missing.

I wrack my brain to try and remember the last time he wore it, but I can’t. I run my hand down the row, just in case I’m missing it somehow, but the one that I bought him for my mother’s funeral is definitely gone.

I slide my earring in place, and I walk out of the closet to ask where it has gone. “Hey, is the suit at the dry cleaners?”

“What suit?” When he turns to face me, it’s there again, the slight discomfort underlying his question. That’s when I recognize what I didn’t a month ago.

He feels guilty about something.

“Is something going on?” I ask softly, not sure I really want to know.

Will my question cause a fight? What happens if it does? Do I really have the bandwidth to deal with an argument right now? I’m nearly ready for work. I just need to grab my jacket and slide my feet into pumps, but he’s ready right now. But I want to know where it is. . .and why.

It was expensive, sure, but more importantly, his dove grey suit fit him just right.

That’s not something anyone would say about me these days, no matter what I was wearing. Nothing really fits me right now. Actually, I had to buy a whole new wardrobe after Mom passed, and then again a few months later. It’s been a rough year. But my husband looks flawless—my amazing, handsome, debonair husband.

The one who won’t meet my eye when I ask him about the suit.

He glances at his watch. “I better head out. I have an early meeting.”

“Wait, you’re driving separately?” I arch one eyebrow.

He nods. “Plus, after dinner I have that thing. Remember?”

“The fundraiser?”

He nods.

“Right.”

“Okay.” When he turns to go, there’s no hug. There’s not even a peck on the cheek. He just heads for the door.

That’s the moment that I know.

I can’t explain why I know. I’m not sure how it can be true. It wasn’t a single moment or a single day, but in that moment, it hits me like a mallet to the head.

My husband’s having an affair.

There have been too many things lately. There’ve been too many early meetings. And the most condemning evidence of all is the mysterious suit. Being in the donate pile a few months back clearly wasn’t a mistake. It was there intentionally, and I was too obtuse to parse out what it meant.

I wonder how many other things I missed.

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