“Same as always.”
“Well, it’s great.”
I didn’t argue. I just picked up my fork and pushed a piece of potato around my plate and watched him eat.
I’d been married to Mark Ellison for twenty-six years. I knew every expression that man had. I knew the face he made when he was tired, the face he made when he was lying about liking my sister’s lasagna, the face he made when he was trying not to cry at a movie.
And I had never, not once in twenty-six years, seen the face he made just now.
That freeze.
That flashlight look.
He was hiding something.
Mark had taken the same fishing trip every summer for nine years.
Same three friends. Dave, who he’d worked construction with since they were twenty. Ray, Dave’s brother-in-law, who talked too much and laughed too loud. And Tommy, the quiet one, who’d been Mark’s best man at our wedding.
