“Your sister was in Friday. She and Ray are just thrilled about the closing,” Tina said, her fingers busy with the foil in my hair.

I kept smiling like a church portrait. My face did not change. I did not flinch, even though my chest went cold.

I don’t have a sister within 600 miles. My only sister, Martha, lives in a brick townhouse in Savannah, Georgia.

And Ray is my husband of 40 years. He is a retired claims adjuster who still wears a digital Casio watch and eats his oatmeal at exactly 6 AM.

But when you are 68 years old and sitting in a salon cape at Shear Magic, you learn that the gossip is faster than the local news. I just nodded and let Tina talk.

Tina has done my color for 20 years. She knows my life, or at least she thought she did.

“She is just the sweetest thing,” Tina continued, humming as she brushed the chemical dye onto my roots. “Ray is so good to her. Paying for her standing Friday appointment on his card.”

I squeezed my hands together under the plastic cape. My knuckles turned white, but I kept my voice as smooth as sweet tea.

“Yes, Ray is very generous,” I said. “He always has been.”

“And that new house,” Tina sighed, looking at my reflection in the mirror. “The one with the sunroom over on Whispering Pines. The closing is this Thursday, right?”

“Thursday morning,” I whispered. My brain was spinning, but my voice remained perfectly steady.

“I knew it,” Tina said proudly. “She told me they were signing the papers at 10 AM. You must be so excited to have her living so close.”

I just smiled. I didn’t say another word about it. I let her rinse my hair, blow-dry it, and style it into my usual soft curls.

When I paid at the front desk, I looked at the little appointment book on the counter. Tina had a slot blocked out every Friday at 2 PM.

The name in the book was Heather Vance. Ray had given her his last name at the salon.

I walked out into the bright Tuesday afternoon. The air in Ocala was warm and thick with the smell of orange blossoms, but I felt like I was walking through ice.

Ray and I had lived in our ranch house on Oak Street for nearly 3 decades. We built our life on routines.

For 40 years, I knew his habits. I knew he kept his spare car keys in the ceramic frog by the porch.

I knew he clipped coupons for the local grocery store. He would drive 5 miles out of his way just to save 50 cents on a gallon of milk.

He was a man who hated spending money. Or so I had believed.