Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name
“It’s an investment in our future,” Bob said, his voice sharp and low.
“Donald’s handled my hardware accounts for twenty years, and today you marched into his office acting like some suspicious stranger.”
Mrs.
Gable, who’d taught home economics alongside me for twelve years, came out of the bakery holding a brown paper bag.
Bob straightened up at once and tipped his hat to her with a friendly nod.
“Morning, Martha,” Bob called out brightly.
“Nice crisp autumn breeze today.”
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