Between Honor And Duty. Charlotte Maclay

out of the garage, she parked it in the driveway. The car had been an extravagance in her view, but Ray had been insistent. The symptom of a mid-life crisis, she supposed. She’d given in easily enough. He worked hard and deserved a little fun. Admittedly, it was a spiffy car—fire-engine red with a glossy finish. But for her and the children, the aging minivan would do fine.

      She got the hand-held Dustbuster from Ray’s workbench. With the top down, it was easy to climb in and out of the car. She started with the driver’s side, trying not to picture Ray sitting there, smiling so broadly because he’d gotten a new toy. Teasingly, he’d called the convertible his “pickin’ up chicks” car. She hadn’t been particularly amused.

      She tossed the floor mats onto the grass to wash later. The Dustbuster inhaled the collection of dirt and sand easily, and she worked her way across to the passenger side. She checked the glove box, setting aside the registration and the owner’s manual, vacuumed the carpeting on that side of the car, then climbed into the back seat.

      The upholstery looked virtually pristine, no wear and tear evident at all. Thinking she ought to get a fairly good price, considering the car’s condition, she ran the vacuum beneath the front seat. When she brought the vacuum back into view, a piece of purple fabric dangled from its mouth.

      She switched off the power and sat up on the seat staring at the swatch of nylon material. Her stomach knotted in apprehension. Slowly she pulled the fabric free.

      Thong panties!

      Could there be any innocent reason for another woman’s underwear to be in the back seat of Ray’s car?

      Nausea rose in her throat. Could she have been so stupid, so naive as not to know Ray was having an affair?

      She got down on her hands and knees, feeling around under both front seats. Her fingers closed over a small plastic tube. A lipstick.

      Mango Madness! Never in her life had she worn that shade of lipstick. It would make her look like a hooker.

      Trying to breathe against the pain that speared through her chest, she closed her eyes. To her dismay, she pictured a woman who had been at Ray’s funeral service. A stranger. Long blond hair. Dark glasses. Shockingly bright orange lips.

      Outrage warred with the knowledge she had failed as a wife. As a woman.

      Stomach heaving, she bolted from the car, collapsing on the grass near the flower bed she had so lovingly tended. She breathed deeply, desperately trying not to be sick.