Every single thing she had given my husband.
Vanessa stared at it.
Her smile vanished.
The neighbors closest to the table leaned forward to look. Mrs. Pratt put her hand over her mouth. I heard somebody whisper, “Are those love notes?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t read them out loud. I didn’t hold them up. I didn’t need to.
Vanessa’s face went red. Then white. Her hand came up to her throat.
“He gave you these,” she whispered.
“Every single one,” I said quietly. “The day after you got them. He kept them in a shoebox in our garage. He never ate the cookies. He never drank the wine. He never opened the book.” I looked at her. “He didn’t want to hurt your feelings. That’s the kind of man he is. He just kept saying no and putting everything in the box. In case I ever needed to know he wasn’t hiding anything from me.”
