Wearing an Emerald Green Dress on My Birthday Cost Me My Husband – Page 5

Damon came down the hallway, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards, and stopped by the bedroom door frame. He adjusted his shirt collar, his eyes moving from my face down to my hands.

“Are we wearing the family heirlooms now?” he asked.

“I was just looking at them,” I said, my voice trailing off as I went to put them back in the box.

“Good,” he said, turning back toward the stairs. “We wouldn’t want you looking like you’re trying too hard at your age.”

“They were my mother’s,” I said.

“I know whose they were,” he said, his voice carrying back from the stairwell. “I’m just saying, let’s keep things simple.”

He laughed, the quick, dry sound he always made when he was teasing, but I kept my hand on the velvet lid until I heard him reach the kitchen. I decided right then that I would leave them in the drawer.

The next evening, I stood by the small mirror in the downstairs bathroom and applied the new lipstick I bought at the drugstore. It was a shade called Warm Berry, brighter than the pale pink I had worn since our wedding day.

I smoothed my hands down my apron, trying to decide if the color made my teeth look yellow. A floorboard creaked in the hall behind me.

“Is there a parade in town?” Damon asked from the bathroom doorway.

He had a mug of black coffee in his hand and was checking his watch.

“I wanted to try something different for the dinner next week,” I said, looking down at the sink.

“It makes you look like you’re heading to a high school dance,” he said, taking a sip from his mug. “At fifty, Elena, we should probably leave the paint to the girls.”

He smiled to show he was just kidding, but the coffee mug clicked hard against the tile counter when he set it down.

I took a piece of damp toilet paper and wiped the berry color off my lips until they were pale again. I threw the paper into the trash bin and did not look at him.

“You always take my little jokes so seriously,” he said, laughing as he walked into the living room.

I stood there for a long time, watching my reflection in the dim light of the bathroom. I rubbed my hands down my thighs, feeling the rough cotton of my apron against my palms.

On Thursday morning, the mail carrier left the monthly credit card statement on the porch. I sat at the dining room table with the envelope, sliding a silver butter knife under the seal to open it quietly.

The charge from Evelyn’s Dress Shop was right there near the bottom, one hundred and forty dollars, standing out against the utility bills and the grocery totals. I heard Damon’s heavy boots descending the wooden stairs.

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