She gripped her mug. Everything would be fine.

It had to be.

Just tell the truth and put the rest in God’s hands, Eve.

With that admonition echoing in her mind, she dived into the story. “Eight years ago, when I was twenty-four and launching my teaching career at a private high school, I met a man who was ten years older than me at a teacher workshop. He was one of the presenters. I ended up sitting at his table for lunch, and we hit it off. He called a few days later, invited me to dinner, and I accepted. For the record, he wasn’t wearing a ring.”

“But he was married?” Doug leaned forward.

“Yes—but I didn’t know that.”

“Didn’t you ask?”

“No. In those days, I thought the best of people. It never occurred to me anyone would openly cheat on a spouse—and I would never have pegged this guy as a cheater.”

“Why not?” Brent joined in the questioning.

“He came across as honest, clean-cut, well-educated, and straightforward. He had a responsible job in education and appeared to be committed to the welfare of students. The man radiated integrity. And it wasn’t as if he took me to sleazy bars or met me in dark, out-of-the-way places.”

“How did you find out the truth?” Brent was watching her with an intent, penetrating look she suspected had made more than a few criminals fold under questioning.

Yet empathy radiated from his pores—as if he was searching for the facts, but nevertheless believed in her.

She telegraphed a silent thank-you.

“From his wife, who stormed into a restaurant where we’d met for dinner and proceeded to shriek to everyone in the place that her husband was having an affair.”

Doug cringed. “Ouch.”

“Ouch is a vast understatement. I was mortified and hurt and angry and shocked and . . . you name the emotion, I was feeling it.”

“What did your friend do?” Brent leaned closer, almost as if he wanted to take her hand.

Now wouldn’t that be nice?

She linked her fingers in her lap, fighting the temptation to initiate that inappropriate contact.

“He turned beet red, apologized, and beat a hasty retreat with his wife.”

“Did you ever hear from him again?” Brent folded his arms and leaned back, his jaw hard.

“Once. He sent a letter. Unsigned, no return address. He said his wife had been emotionally strung out for years, was on a variety of medications, and that life at home was a living hell. He’d thought about divorcing her but felt that was wrong.”

“Yet dating another woman—and misleading her—wasn’t?” Brent narrowed his eyes.