“I remember.”
“I told you it was beautiful.”
“I know.”
I couldn’t believe it.
I had sent my husband a photograph of something he had designed and told him how beautiful it was.
And he had simply thanked me.
“Does Jamie know?”
“No.”
“Does anyone know?”
“My professional name is E. Cole. The business license is held through a company. The firm uses this address, not our home address.”
He looked ashamed.
“I constructed an entire second life and kept telling myself I would explain next year.”
“Nine next years.”
“Yes.”
I looked at his suit.
“And the overalls?”
“I put them on every morning.”
“You actually dress like a construction worker just to leave the house?”
“Yes.”
“And then you change here?”
“At the corner.”
“And you change back before coming home?”
“Yes.”
“For nine years?”
“Yes.”
I covered my face.
Then another question hit me.
“The lunches.”
Edward was quiet.
“What happened to the food?”
“There’s a man named Robert.”
I lowered my hands.
“What?”
“He works the early shift at a diner on Farber Street. He’s sixty-two. Money has been difficult for him for years.”
Edward gave me a cautious look.
“He eats the lunches.”
I stared.
“For nine years?”
“Yes.”
“He eats my sandwiches?”
“He calls them Rachel sandwiches.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed.
“He knows my name?”
“He asks about you sometimes.”
“So my husband has been secretly feeding a stranger my lunches for nine years?”
“Yes.”
“And keeping the notes?”
Edward reached into his jacket.
He pulled out the folded card I had written that morning.
He handed it to me.
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