Then I went upstairs to find my daughter.
The bridal suite was a big room on the second floor with windows overlooking the field. Emma was sitting in front of a mirror in her white silk robe. Her hair was half done. One side pinned up in soft curls, the other side still straight and loose.
The hairdresser saw my face and said, “I’ll grab some more pins,” and left us alone.
“We need to talk,” I said, closing the door.
Emma turned around in the chair. “Mom. What happened?”
“Your father knows the woman who called the bakery.”
Her expression changed. Just a flicker. But I saw it.
“He was there with her,” I said. “A few weeks ago. The baker described him. The scar and everything.”
“Mom—”
“I think your father is having an affair.”
“Dad isn’t having an affair.”
She said it instantly. Flat. Absolutely certain.
