I step out of the shower and wipe the steam from the mirror over the double vanity. As I brush out my hair and tie it back, I glance down at Mari’s business card. It’s been sitting here on the bathroom counter for a week and a half now. Long enough for Adam to be home and see it—though he never mentioned anything about it—and long enough for me to realize that I probably wasn’t going to call Marianne for lunch.
I allow myself a brief moment of self-pity. I had traded excitement for stability a long time ago, and now I live in a nice house in a nice neighborhood with a service to take care of the lawn and a sizable investment portfolio to see Adam and me comfortably through our retirement years. If he ever stops working long enough to retire that is.
Oh God, I’m a work widow, I think. But
