Marlene watched over her peeling white fence, scanning my yard. I thought she was a nosy neighbor until she leaned in, lowered her voice, and said, “Emma, your husband is not who you think he is.”
Marlene would arrive up without entering my yard. Her face was usually over the fence, framed by peeling white paint and her short gray hair behind a sun visor.
Like she had an unseen alarm that went off as I stepped outdoors.
Almost daily.
She would appear while I folded laundry on the porch.
I sometimes painted in the backyard while the kids played.
She’d be watering the same half-dead geraniums that never grew, looking past me at my porch, open windows, and swing set.
Sunlight hung thick that Tuesday afternoon. The paint water smelled strong and unpleasant as I rinsed my brushes in a jar after sketching.
Glanced up and froze.
Marlene wasn’t acting today. She had no pruners or watering can. She leaned on the fence, chin on arms, inspecting my yard like a security officer watched a criminal.
My sandals slapped the grass as I placed down my brush and walked over.
Something I can help with, Marlene?
Her response was delayed. She glanced toward my kitchen window before returning to me.
I had never heard her speak so quietly.
“Emma… I must inform you. Your husband is not who you think.”
I believed she was joking.
“What does that mean?”
“I see him,” she murmured, looking toward my house like she was worried someone would hear. “Every time you take the kids to mom’s. Various women arrive. They stayed the night and called him another name.”
I almost fainted.
Oh, sweetheart. Different. Jordan, Riley… How can I recall everything at my age? I’m not joking. I promise my amazing pancakes!”
I attempted to laugh, but it was dry and bitter. “Marlene, that’s ridiculous.”
Her lips were thinly lined.
“Believe me or not, Emma, but watch him.”
Heavy heat came suddenly. Even without sweating, my palms felt moist.
Marlene looked at me one final time, warning and satisfied, then returned to her yard and pretended to fuss with the flowers. Her comments stuck like stinging burrs, hard to shake.
I slept with my back to Robert that night.
Although his side of the bed was hot, my skin was cold, like someone had opened a window inside me. Marlene’s remarks repeated. Different women. Different names.
I tried to believe she was lying, bored, or seeking problems.
I made coffee for us the next morning. My voice was too light.
“Your list today?”
After buttering toast, Robert looked up.
“Usual. Maybe fix that attic door.”
The attic. As I remembered it, the space was full of boxes, old coats, and dust so thick you could write your name. It had been months since I went.
I sipped slowly, watching my mug steam.
Have you ever used a different name? Like Jordan or Riley?
Robert frowned, then laughed.
“Alex? No. That came from where?
I shrugged. “Just popped into my head.”
My mind didn’t quiet down after my hubby ate again.
I noticed things I hadn’t before throughout the next few days.
After hearing his phone buzz on the counter, Robert would stroll into another room to respond. One afternoon, he came home smelling like paint, stating he was running errands.
He returned home late Wednesday night.
He held up a plastic bag, saying, “Hardware store.” Required paint rollers.
Paint. Again. It felt like I swallowed a stone in my chest. Hearing the same justification ten times was suspicious. I didn’t smell paint.
Smelled like treachery.
After Robert kissed my cheek and left, I remained in the hallway starring at his spot. Too rapid heartbeat.
By Friday morning, I decided. Purse in hand, I stood by the entrance.
“Taking the kids to Mama’s for the weekend.”
“That’ll be good for you,” Robert smiled as he handed me the car keys. Say hello to her.”
He kissed me farewell. My chest felt cold when the door closed behind me.
I knew I’d learn the truth that weekend, but I didn’t know what.
I left the kids at Mama’s, kissed them goodbye, and got in the car.
I turned back into town instead of continuing to the freeway.
My knuckles hurt from gripping the steering wheel. Leather felt heated from the sun.
I removed my heels, parked two streets from our house so no one would notice, and entered the alley.
Behind the garden shed, I saw much of the backyard. The home was quiet. No window lights, no movement. Just cicadas droning in the trees.
Slowly, minutes passed. Then hours. Crouching strained my knees and sent sweat down my back.
Maybe Marlene lied with me. It could be the ancient, odd woman’s imagination. Maybe I made up a wild story.
But then—headlights.
A silver automobile gently climbed the driveway. Two women exited laughing lightly. One had a bouquet of flowers, the other a big tote bag.
The front door opened. Robert stood there, smiling like the sun had just risen.
This Alex. Some illness!
Their voices faded as they entered. I stayed behind the shed, my heart racing so loudly I thought it could be heard through the walls.
Ten long minutes. A light turned on upstairs.
Slowly, carefully, I walked down the house side, holding my breath.
Opening the rear door creaked, and I immediately smelled fresh wood and something sweet, possibly flowers. The kitchen was clean. No meal, just faint sneaker tracks on the floor.
I climbed the steps like my feet had a mind.
At the end of the hallway, the attic door was slightly open. A door that had been stuck for years required Robert to ram his shoulder into it to move it.
Warm, welcome light filled the hallway. It was interrupted by quiet, personal laughter.
I inhaled, hand on doorframe. So I pushed the door just enough to see without being noticed.
The attic wasn’t dusty anymore. Old boxes, broken chairs, and holiday decorations were gone. Fresh lavender paint shone on smooth walls.
Bright flowers in pots around the broad windows caught the fading light. One woman wiped the main window.
She grinned at Robert abruptly. “Almost finished this wall.”
Robert stood in the middle of the room, relaxed and smiling warmly, like he belonged. My pulse accelerated. My voice tightened as I entered the threshold.
“Robert. What’s up?”
He froze, his smile fading.
I pointed to the roller-wielding woman. “Who are these women? Someone called Alex minutes ago. And…”
The woman giggled quietly, wiping her cheek with the back of her forearm to remove a trace of colored paint.
“No… My name is Alex. Also an artist. You were one, Robert said. I offered to install lighting and chose colors for your space.”
The far wall was lined with clean glass jars waiting for brushes on shelves.
Robert moved toward me. “Your birthday is next week. Wanted to surprise. A actual studio. Somewhere you can work without kids running in or spilling paint.”
Momentarily unable to respond. Robert looked hopeful, smiling, and loving at me.
“I’ve been working on it for months,” he whispered. “Every free day. Every time you left.”
Slowly, my shoulders relaxed. I breathed easier.
The scene before me was not as expected. Not even close.
Late in the kitchen, the truth emerged.
Robert planned for months. He arranged helpers—all ladies Marlene had undoubtedly seen—for my absences.
Their names were Jordan, Riley, and Alex. They were decorators, designers, art store pals, and an indoor plant gardener.
Finally, Robert hugged me.
“I wanted to give you something you’ve wanted for years.”
I spotted Marlene in her yard the next morning. I saw her arrogant face.
“Yes. Marlene, Robert’s fine. Better than fine.”
Her frown intensified as she returned to her lifeless geraniums.
I stood in my new studio that night. Fresh wood and flowers filled the air. I thought while painting. People staring over the fence aren’t always seeking for the truth.
They seek problems.