Harvest [antikvár]

Carrying the proceeds of the morning's errands, soap from the drugstore, rolls from the bakery, socks and shirts from the boys' store, she was waiting to cross Main Street when she saw his car. There were not that many pearl-gray Cadillac convertibles in town, and it caught her attention seconds before she recognised her husband or saw that a woman was in the front seat beside him. And she stood there, watching, as slowly, through noontime traffic, the car moved past. Sunlight struck the proud MD license plate, and the chrome on the car's fins gleamed discreetly. Then the familiar, shameful, angry, frightened cry rose in her: Who was she? He likes rich things, my husband does. Rich but not gaudy. His tastes are quiet and refined, even in women. But no, not always! That girl at my mother's cousin's funeral - the one with three shades of hair and rhinestones all over her skirt - my God, he had to flirt, even at a funeral, even with her. She began to tremble, dropping the bag of socks. Someone picked it up. A male voice with a smile in it spoke to her. 'Got your arms full, haven't you? Oh, it's you, Mrs Stem! You don't remember me? Jed Bauer from the hospital?' One of the interns, she thought, collecting herself. *Yes, of course. Thank you.' The light was still red. It would probably take another minute to change, a segment of time that he, a polite young man, would think it necessary to fill with pleasantries. 'Children all well, I hope?' 'Oh, yes, busy. Back in school.'