After 40 years of marriage, surely there should be some trust.
At least that’s what I told myself.
That evening, we ate at the hotel restaurant. Robert behaved normally, ordering wine and complaining that the menu had changed.
He reminded me about the food we’d eaten on our honeymoon, and I laughed at his stories.
But I couldn’t forget the receptionist’s expression.
While Robert was in the restroom, I asked our server, “How long has the woman at the front desk worked here?”
“Almost 25 years, I think.”
“That long?”
“Yeah. She’s basically part of the building.”
So there was no way she remembered us from 40 years ago.
The next morning, Robert said he wanted to walk into town and find the little bookstore we’d once visited.
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
He hesitated.
“I was thinking I’d pick something out for you.”
It sounded sweet.
Normally, I would’ve kissed him.
Instead, I said, “Okay.”
As soon as he left, I went downstairs.
Karen was behind the desk. The moment she saw me, her expression became guarded.
“I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“When was my husband here?”
She froze.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t discuss a guest’s stays.”
“He’s my husband.”
“I understand.”
“Was he here with someone?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“I really can’t discuss it.”
“You said he usually requests the same room.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“How many times?”
