Page 41 of Letters From Victor

“A few apartment buildings downtown, some hotels, a department store or two, and a future residential site.” Again, not a lie. I glanced at him sideways. “It was pretty windy.”

I turned my attention back to the road, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel. The silence stretched between us, thick with tension. From the corner of my eye, I caught Frank’s jaw flexing as he stared out the windshield.

“I don’t like it,” he finally said, his voice tight. “You running all over town with that man. It’s not proper.”

I took a deep breath, willing myself to remain calm. “It’s part of my job, Frank.”

“You’re a part-time secretary, Barbara. Your job is to type letters and answer phones,” Frank retorted, his voice rising.“Not to go traipsing around the city with your boss like some…some…”

“Some what?” I challenged, my temper flaring.

Frank’s jaw tightened. “You know what I mean,” he muttered.

I clenched the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles turned white. “No, Frank, I don’t know what you mean. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“People will get the wrong idea,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “The war is long over. You don’t need to be out there being Rosie the Riveter.”

I bit back a sharp retort, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “Mr. Cardello values my input,” I said carefully. “He’s teaching me about the business. It’s an opportunity to learn and grow.”

Frank scoffed. “Learn and grow? What on earth for?”

His words stung, rekindling the familiar ache of unfulfillment.

“This job… It gives me a sense of purpose. Is that so wrong?”

Frank sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just don’t understand why you need more, Barb.”

“Why does it bother you that I want something for myself, Frank? I’m still your wife.”

“Then act like it!” he snapped. “A proper wife doesn’t spend more time with her boss than her own husband. A proper wife is home when her family needs her.”

I bit back every fiery retort that bloomed on my tongue. It wasn’t worth it.

I pulled into our driveway and shifted the car into park.

Frank glanced up, then turned to me, brow furrowed. “Aren’t we going to Edith’s place to pick up Frank Junior?”

“Iam,” I answered. “I just figured I’d give you a head start on your whiskey.” My tone was ice.

Frank’s face flushed red. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know you’ll head straight for the liquor cabinet the moment we walk through that door. So why don’t you get a head start while I pick up our son?”

Frank’s jaw clenched as he glared at me. “You’re out of line, Barbara,” he growled.

“Am I?” I shot back, my composure finally cracking. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

We stared at each other in tense silence, neither willing to back down. Then, Frank shoved the car door open and got out, slamming it behind him hard enough to make the whole vehicle shake. I watched him stomp to the house and fumble with his keys before disappearing inside.

He shut the front door so violently, the windowpanes rattled. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. I wouldn’t cry. Not over this. Not over him.

Not when I had someone far better.

“Where did you stash Frank?” Edith glanced over my shoulder at my empty car in her driveway.

“I left him at home.”

She smirked, giving me a once-over. “So…”

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