Helen encountered the wife of a Navy commander at a Greenwich charity luncheon several weeks after the ball. The woman was polite—carefully, deliberately polite in the way people are when they know something about you that you wish they did not.
Helen read the careful neutrality in her face and understood that the story had arrived in Greenwich.
She said nothing. She drove home.
Barbara Nichols, Helen’s closest friend of 30 years, met her for lunch shortly after.
Barbara was sympathetic. She was always sympathetic. It was her primary function in the friendship.
But she could not quite conceal her discomfort with the version of events Helen was presenting.
She listened. She nodded.
And then she asked, “But you knew Catherine was a Navy captain.”
Helen said, “She never made it clear.”
Barbara paused. She looked at Helen for a long moment, and then she said very carefully, “Helen… she was wearing her uniform.”
Helen changed the subject. Barbara let her.
It was not a comfortable silence.
Without Frank’s regular presence, Helen experienced something new.
His calls were shorter. His visits were fewer.