The florist in Conway called at two fifteen on a Thursday afternoon to confirm Paul’s standing delivery, but I had not received flowers from my husband since our twenty-fifth anniversary three years ago. Her name was Abby, and she worked at Flowers on Oak. She sounded young, polite, and uncomfortable in that way people get when they realize they are holding the sharp end of someone else’s life.

I almost didn’t go. That is the part I hate admitting because it makes me sound foolish.

I sat in my driveway for eleven minutes after the florist hung up, still wearing the blue cardigan with the bleach spot on the cuff, telling myself there had to be a mistake.

The kitchen clock ticked so loud I could hear it over the refrigerator hum. Paul had told me Thursdays were Rotary planning lunches that turned into late client meetings. Every Thursday. For nine months. I had packed him leftover meatloaf twice because he said Bellini’s was too expensive to eat at every week.

Bellini’s.

I called the Visa company first. Not because I was calm, but because numbers were easier than feelings. The woman on the line read off thirty-one charges. Seventy-four dollars and sixty-thirds, seventy-four dollars and sixty-thirds, ninety-one dollars and twelve cents near Valentine’s Day, then back to seventy-four dollars and sixty-thirds. Same florist. Same day of the week.

I wrote each one on the back of an old church bulletin with a pencil that kept breaking.

Then I went to the hall closet and took down Paul’s old binoculars from the shelf where he kept duck calls and a flashlight with dead batteries.

The strap smelled like dust and leather. I wiped the lenses with the hem of my shirt because my hands were shaking too badly to care about smudges.

At 3:35, I parked behind the pharmacy across the street from Bellini’s. My hands were steady until I saw the delivery van pull up.

Abby got out carrying peach roses and white lilies. I knew those lilies. They were the ones I used to hate because the pollen stained tablecloths. Paul used to tease me for cutting the stamens out with nail scissors so the table stayed clean.

The bouquet went inside through the side entrance.

At 3:52, Paul’s silver Tahoe turned into the lot. He was early. That made it worse somehow. My husband, who was always late to my gallbladder surgery and missed our grandson’s first steps, was early for flowers I never got.

He checked his reflection in the driver’s side window before he cut the engine.

Smoothed his hair. Buttoned his sport coat. A tiny, ordinary thing that made my stomach turn over.

I watched through the binoculars as he walked past the hostess stand without giving his name. The girl there smiled like she knew him by heart.

I picked up my phone and called Bellini’s from the driver’s seat.

The hostess answered on the second ring, and I said I was confirming a reservation for Paul and his party at four o’clock. She asked if I meant Mr. Redding’s usual booth. I said yes.

She said, “He and Miss Claire are already seated.”

Claire.

My sister’s best friend was named Claire. Claire Donnelly, who had brought deviled eggs to my mother’s funeral and sat at our kitchen table telling me Paul was one of the good ones. Claire, who had borrowed my black dress for a work dinner two years ago and never returned the belt.

I got out of the car.

My legs felt strange, like the asphalt had more give than it should. I walked across the lot slowly because I refused to look like a woman running toward her own humiliation.

Inside, the restaurant smelled like garlic butter and heavy red wine. A waiter I recognized from our anniversary dinner looked at me, then looked away too fast.

I followed his eyes.

Paul was sitting in the corner booth with his back half turned to the room. Claire sat across from him, the peach roses placed right between them, her hand resting on the heavy glass vase like she owned the flowers and everything attached to them.

Then Abby, the florist clerk, stepped out from behind the service station holding a small white envelope.

She looked straight at me, standing there by the hostess stand, and said, “Mrs. Redding, there’s one more card he ordered for today.”