Vivian’s timing in placing the story in the Record had been off by about two weeks, but Betty would grudgingly give her credit for having had the presence of mind to stem the flow of the hemorrhaging gossip by controlling the story. Well, good for her. Controlling the story was ninety percent of the battle, except, sadly for Vivian, the battle had ended. She was left with the carnage now.

Betty had kept a watchful eye on her own husband after hearing about Edward Dalton’s secret first wife. What a strange story it had been, and to happen to a relatively normal family right there in Wooster. After her tea party, the rest of the women eyed their own husbands with the same low-level suspicion. How well did you ever really know your spouse?

Take Clara Weaver’s husband, David, who spent long hours “at the office,” and it couldn’t have been all work he was doing, because he wasn’t that successful an insurance agent. But it did take a certain kind of personality to get people to buy coverage they’d never need, and that was really David’s problem. Or then there was Miriam Thompson’s husband, Rex, who didn’t have David’s personality issues, but had other problems. He was the state representative for District 1 in the Ohio House. That position did require travel to Columbus, Betty supposed, but the drive was only ninety minutes, and Betty really didn’t think it was necessary for him to keep an apartment there. And then there was Marilyn Dean’s husband, Farley, who, as we knew, had given his secretary an outrageous Christmas bonus that year, and it had nothing to do with her bookkeeping skills. If you asked Betty, their behavior had all started to look incredibly suspicious.

Betty watched Charles undress for bed in the reflection of her gold-framed vanity mirror. He pulled on the new red and green pin-striped pajama bottoms “Santa” had brought him for Christmas, taking too long to tie the drawstring. He then slid his once-muscular arms, one by one, into the pajama shirt and proceeded to fasten the buttons, unaware that Betty was watching him. He missed the first button, so by the time he reached the last buttonhole there were no more buttons to fasten. He poked a finger through the lonely buttonhole and wiggled it, then shrugged, kicked out of his leather slippers, and climbed into his side of the bed.

Betty inhaled sharply through flared nostrils, rolled her eyes, and let a careful stream of breath out through her lips, keeping them just slack enough that she didn’t whistle like a teakettle. She then looked back at her reflection, twisted the lid off the jar, and dipped her fingers into the cold cream, rubbing it in careful circles over her face. She could not imagine Charles ever doing anything truly scandalous. The sheer laziness displayed with the button-fastening extended to other things as well.

She supposed Charles had always been that way, but a girl’s vision was blurred at the beginning of love affairs, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t say she regretted marrying Charles; after all, he came from one of Wooster’s very best families. Vivian Dalton obviously hadn’t considered breeding when she made her choice. If she’d had any sense she’d have chosen Betty’s brother John, although Betty promised herself she wasn’t going to think about that anymore because her analyst had advised against thinking of anything that made her temple veins throb, and now they were throbbing again because, How dare that common slut turn down Johnston Reed!