However, the noisy, crowded place wasn’t an ideal location to terminate a relationship.

“I was going to suggest somewhere a little quieter.” And more private.

“I like the Spotted Hen. It’s homey.”

And comforting.

Got it.

He could always call ahead, ask for the one secluded booth in the back corner that offered a modicum of privacy.

“The Spotted Hen it is. I’ll see you tomorrow. Take care of yourself.”

“I’ll try.” Not her usual cheery response to his standard sign-off. “Good night, Nate.”

The line went dead, but the hint of tears lingered.

He gritted his teeth. Filled his lungs.

Tomorrow was going to be traumatic, and sleep tonight would be elusive.

He picked up the patching compound and putty knife again. May as well put the long night ahead to productive use.

And use the dark hours ahead to pray for courage—and fortitude.

“I’m home, hon. Whatever you’re cooking smells delicious.” Dave set his briefcase on the kitchen counter, dropped his keys beside it, and went in search of his wife.

He found her in the darkened bedroom, eyes closed, lying flat on the bed, a washcloth draped across her forehead.

His spirits nose-dived. When he’d left this morning, she’d been chipper, alert, and energetic.

But as he’d learned, her condition could change in a heartbeat.

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. “Kimberly?” He touched her hand.

It was ice cold.

Panic clawed at his windpipe until the slight rise and fall of her chest registered.

Thank God!

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she peered up at him. “Dave? What time is it?”

“Noon. How are you?” He smoothed back a few strands of damp hair that were clinging to the tepid washcloth.

“Fine now. I . . . I got a headache and thought I’d . . . rest for a while. You must be hungry.”

She started to rise, but he pressed her back. “Don’t get up. Stay here if you’re not feeling well.”

“No. The headache . . . it’s gone.” She removed the washcloth from her forehead, sat up, and gave him a shaky smile. “I made your favorite casserole.”

“I smelled it the minute I walked in the house.”

“What time is it again?”

“Noon.”

“It should be ready.”

“Are you certain you don’t want to stay in bed?”

“No. Would you hand me my cane?”

He rose and retrieved it as she swung her legs to the floor, then helped her up after she slipped on her shoes. Held tight until she was steady. Stayed close as she slowly walked down the hall, his heart aching anew.

Some days it was hard to believe the woman who’d once loved to swing dance, whipped up gourmet meals with aplomb, handled the books for his business, and given articulate presentations that showcased her expertise in gardening now shuffled along with a cane, had difficulty scrambling eggs, couldn’t balance a checkbook, and spoke in halting, hesitant sentences.