“I found this behind his folder,” I said, holding it out to her. “It is a reservation for a resort in Cabo San Lucas.”
My mother took the paper. Her eyes scanned the printed figures, and for a second, her gold ring stopped turning. Then she folded the receipt into a tiny square and dropped it into her leather purse, snapping the brass clasp shut with a sharp click.
“I will keep this safe for you,” she whispered, leaning closer. “There is no need to make accusations that will only destroy your home.”
“The reservation is already paid,” I said.
“You must let me handle this, Clara,” she whispered. “A wife who questions every bill will soon find herself without a house to live in.”
“It cost more than our mortgage payment for three months,” I said.
She stood up, smoothing the front of her wool coat, and walked toward the door without offering to help with the morning bottles.
