Honey? She’s calling him honey?

“They’re terrific, Ro,” Marty said, gazing down with unabashed love.

What the hell was going on here? They’d gone from a couple on the brink of divorce to The Cleavers in less than 48 hours.

Rochelle must have sensed my confusion because she said, “Oh, Jaine. Isn’t it wonderful? Marty and I are back together again. Come into the den, and we’ll tell you all about it.”

So we trooped off to the den, a wood-paneled hideaway with a large-screen TV and leather furnishings picked out no doubt by the recently deceased Marybeth.

“We feel funny sitting in the living room,” Rochelle said, “after what happened there. I’m definitely going to have to change the furniture. But one thing’s for sure: This time, I won’t be using a decorator.”

Rochelle and Marty sat down next to each other on a burgundy leather sofa. I sat across from them in a matching wing chair. Marty put his arm around her, and she snuggled close to him. He stroked her shoulder. She put her hand on his knee. If this kept up, any minute now they’d be necking.

I could contain myself no longer.

“If you don’t mind my asking—what happened?”

“Marty wasn’t going to leave me,” Rochelle said. “Marybeth was lying.”

“I was crazy to get involved with Marybeth,” Marty said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what came over me. Male midlife crisis, I guess.” He shrugged sheepishly. “After a few months, I realized I’d made a mistake, and how much I still loved Rochelle. She’s a finer woman than Marybeth could have ever dreamed of being. I told Marybeth it was all over between us. But she wouldn’t listen. That’s when she put that picture in my dresser drawer.”

“She must’ve slipped it in while she was working on the bathroom,” Rochelle said. “She wanted me to find it. She wanted to break up the marriage.”

“Oh, God, Rochelle.” Marty put his head in his hands. “I was so awful to you. I hate myself for that.”

And then suddenly, he was crying. This big lug of a guy was sobbing his eyes out. Rochelle handed him a lace hanky from her pocket. It looked like a postage stamp in his big hands. He blew his nose with a mighty blast.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he sobbed.

“Of course I can,” Rochelle said, stroking his crew cut.

I don’t know if I’d have been so quick to forgive a man who cheated on me with my decorator, but clearly Rochelle was a more noble soul than I. And I have to admit that, in spite of my determination to hate the guy, I found myself touched by his tears.

“This is so embarrassing,” he said, giving Rochelle’s hanky a final blast.