The Pocket Wife by Susan Crawford Read Free Book Online Page B

than a blush-evokingnight of passion—a conviction, she now realizes, most likely shared by Celia.
    When she reaches the fish section, she stops at a table of faux crab salad, where three women in aprons spoon small tufts of the fake crab onto whole-grain crackers. Behind her, someone snorts. Ronald, she thinks. She doesn’t turn around to face him. Not quite yet. She moves through the sea of arms and hats, gathering this and that in quick, jerky movements. Grab the apples, grab the bag. Open the bag, insert the apples. The ambience of the Root Seller is marred by Ronald’s presence. Even here where she has always felt unreachable, at peace among the cabbages and the German cheese, even here Celia’s death hangs like a guillotine above her head.
    For a moment he disappears, and Dana thinks he might have left. Maybe he wasn’t even following her. She grabs a bunch of organic bananas and heads back to the cart she’s left in the pasta section. And there he is, his face buried in her purse, his pudgy fingers riffling her wallet. For a second she’s torn between confronting him and watching to see what he’s doing.
    â€œRonald!”
    â€œOh,” he says. A line of crimson peeps over the open collar of his shirt and moves to his cheeks. “I was . . . You left your purse wide open in the cart here.”
    Dana stares at him.
    â€œSomebody could just come along and—”
    â€œGo through my stuff?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œMuch like you were doing?”
    â€œHey,” he says. “Hold on here. I was zipping it for you.” He moves away from Dana’s cart, his hand stuck out like a traffic cop’s, his glasses knocked off center in an obvious collision with the display of herbal sunblock a store manager is rushing to put right. “I thought that was you back there in the fish section. I hadto laugh,” he says, “at the absolute absurdity of that woman serving fake anything in a store whose whole purpose is to be genuine in this minefield we live in, this maelstrom of margarines that won’t melt or attract bugs no matter how long they’re left outside the fridge.” His words are light, bantering, but his eyes are cold and squinty in his puffy face.
    Dana stares at him, placing her hand across her purse as if it were a small, active child who might escape. Was he after her cash? Could he possibly be that destitute? No. He was looking for something. She can see it in his eyes. He’s lying his balding head off, but instead of anger, she feels fear. Is Ronald trying to cover something up, a thought she finds the teensiest bit comforting? Or does he suspect she killed his wife? Is he searching for the proof inside her bag?
    â€œRonald,” she says, “I am so sorry. About Celia. It’s so awful I can’t even begin to imagine how you must—”
    â€œThanks. That means a lot,” Ronald says, “coming from you.” For a moment neither of them speaks.
    â€œUmm,” Dana says, “what do you mean?” Her voice cracks.
    Ronald shrugs. “Just that . . . you were so special to Celia,” he says, but Dana can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.
    â€œI wasn’t that special. We were . . . we were friends,” she finishes in a barely audible voice.
    â€œYes.” Ronald nods. “So where’s your husband? Peter, is it? Paul?”
    â€œPeter. He isn’t here, actually. He’s at home.” Her voice, which she now has somewhat under control, thunders across the aisle.
    â€œOh,” Ronald says. “Too bad.”
    â€œDo you know Peter?”
    â€œWell,” Ronald says, “no. Not really. No. I’d like to, though. I’d really enjoy meeting him.”
    â€œOh.” Dana pushes her cart forward to check out and begins unloading it in the speed line. She wonders if Ronald has happenedupon the photo in his late wife’s phone and decides by now he