The rest of the sports show passed slowly.
I sold pierogi until the afternoon crowd thinned.
Peg came by twice to check on the food stand.
The second time, she noticed my expression.
"Everything all right?"
"Faron was here."
She looked toward the boat tent.
"I saw him."
I stopped working for a moment.
"You saw what happened?"
"Enough of it."
I lowered my eyes.
"I didn't want trouble at your stand."
Peg shook her head.
"You're not responsible for his behavior."
She picked up one of the paper trays.
"Besides, you have customers to feed."
That was Peg.
She didn't make a speech.
She just reminded me what mattered.
I finished the remaining orders.
When the fairgrounds started getting quieter, I helped pack the food containers.
The recipe box wasn't there, of course.
I had left it safely at home.
But I thought about my mother's handwriting on those old cards.
She had written every recipe carefully.
Even the ones she knew by heart.
I wondered what she would have said about the last eleven years.
Probably something simple.
Something about not confusing love with obligation.
I drove home after the stand closed.
My feet hurt.
My apron smelled like onions and butter.
I put my purse on the kitchen table and checked my phone.
There were four missed calls.
Three from Faron.
One from an unknown number.
I didn't return any of them.
I made myself a sandwich.
Then I sat down.
The house was quiet again.
I had started getting used to that.
Sunday morning, Faron called while I was making coffee.
I let it ring.
He called again.
Then a message appeared.
He wanted me to contact the bank and reverse whatever I had done.
I read it.
Then I put the phone beside the coffee maker.
A few minutes later, another message arrived.
He said I had embarrassed him in front of his friends.
I stared at those words.
Embarrassed him.
Not the money.
Not the years of spending.
Not the fact that he had threatened to damage my reputation when I asked for my own cards.
His concern was that three men had watched a payment get rejected.
I didn't answer.
Later that morning, Peg called.
She sounded irritated.
"Have you heard from Faron today?"
I stopped washing a plate.
"No. Why?"
"He called the diner."
My stomach tightened.
"What did he want?"
"He wanted to speak to you."
I waited.
Peg continued.
"He also asked whether I'd noticed anything strange with the register."
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The threat from the courthouse steps.
He was trying to make it real.
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I had twenty-two years of records and no reason to question your honesty."
I leaned against the counter.
Peg went on.
"Then I told him not to use my business to settle his personal arguments."
I didn't know what to say.
"I'm sorry, Peg."
"Don't apologize for him."
She paused.
"Angela, keep your statements. Keep your messages. Don't throw anything away."
I looked toward the small drawer where I kept household papers.
"I will."
"And if he says anything else about the register, tell me immediately."
I thanked her.
After we hung up, I sat at the table.
The coffee had gone cold.
I thought about how quickly a person could turn against somebody who had helped him.
Faron knew I had never stolen from Peg.
He knew how hard I worked.
He knew I worried about every dollar.
But he had found something he thought would frighten me.
My job.
My reputation.
My place in a small town.
And he was willing to use it.
I went to the drawer and took out my bank statements.
I placed them in a folder.
Then I printed the text messages from Faron.
I kept the courthouse date written on the first page.
I wasn't planning to use them against him.
I just wanted the truth somewhere outside my head.
That afternoon, Earline called.
I recognized her number.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
But I answered.
"Hello?"
She sounded angry.
"Angela, what have you done?"
I leaned back in my chair.
"Which part are you asking about?"
"The credit cards."
"They're closed."
There was a pause.
"You had no right to do that without telling us."
I looked at the kitchen counter.
The scissors were still in the drawer.
"Those accounts were mine."
"Your husband used them."
"Faron is my former husband now."
She made a small noise.
"Don't start with that."
I didn't answer.
She continued talking.
She said she had appointments.
She said she needed to pay for things.
She said she had never expected me to behave this way.
I listened.
Then I asked one question.
"Did you ever think about how I paid those bills?"
Silence.
I waited.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she told me that I had changed.
Maybe I had.
For the first time in years, I wasn't agreeing just to end a conversation.
"I'm not discussing this anymore, Earline."
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking again.
But I didn't regret it.
I put the phone down and opened the folder.
There were years of statements.
Years of charges.
Years of payments from my checking account.
The numbers were still there.
I couldn't change what had happened.
But I could stop pretending it hadn't.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Same Woman Who Had Never Thanked Me for Her Friday Appointments Suddenly Wanted to Know How I Could Be So Cruel
I Thought Being a Good Wife Meant Never Making My Husband Feel the Weight of His Own Mistakes
Part 6 of 20
