Margaret followed me past a plastic bin of mismatched leather belts.

“Ethan’s going to be at the estate by three this afternoon to take pictures with the caterers.”

“He thinks I’m staying home today,” I said.

“He thinks I wrote that horrible rejection note and mailed it to his office.”

I took a thin gray collared shirt off a bent plastic hanger.

The cuffs were frayed, and the color had faded unevenly over the shoulders.

It looked just like something a woman with nothing to her name would wear on a Tuesday afternoon.