"There," said Rhiannon, cocking her head as she assessed her handiwork. "I've done my part. Now you do yours. Do we have a deal?"

The ivy drooped unhappily over the lip of its pot, offering no promises. The wilted leaves did not make for an encouraging sight, but Rhiannon had never been intimidated by a sickly plant. She had earned a reputation among those she knew for her green thumb—so much so that she agreed, now and then, to rehabilitate a plant for a desperate friend.

Rhiannon picked up the pot and shouldered her way out the patio door to find a sunny spot. "Marnie just got a bit heavy-handed with the water. Too much of a good thing, little guy," she said. "You'll be all fixed up before you know it."

A raised voice and the sound of approaching footsteps came from within the house. "Rhi, I'm off."

She smiled as she set the ivy on the low patio wall. Putting her hands on her hips, she turned to see Brad propping the patio door open, a familiar, crooked smile on his face. "What?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I just love to see you doin' what you do," he said.

Wrinkling her nose, Rhiannon made a shooing gesture as she stepped over to him. "You're running late. Go. Go."

"Nothin' new." Brad leaned out of the house and kissed her three times in quick succession: forehead, cheek, lips. When he made to pull away, Rhiannon leaned in to extend the kiss, following him half into the house. He broke the kiss with his laugh. "Now whose fault is it, darlin'? Get back to your plants. I'll see you at six."

Rhiannon leaned against the door jamb, watching Brad cross back through the kitchen. He snagged his travel mug of coffee from the breakfast bar and went out through the front door to his car. She loved the way he looked in his crisp blue shirt and tie. The only good thing about saying goodbye to him was the view from behind.

"Well, just you and me now, buddy," she said to the ivy, glancing back over her shoulder at the plant. Maybe it was her imagination, but it already looked better. It wasn't really just the two of them, though; Rhiannon's gaze drifted past the ivy to the other plants arranged along the patio wall: basil, thyme, rosemary, and a rehabilitated sage were verdant neighbors to potted pansies, marigolds, fuschias and a dear little money tree—Pachira aquatica—which she usually kept inside but had brought out to enjoy the sun. Past them, in her garden, were her daisies and a riotous rose bush; there were also angel's trumpets, Virginia bluebells, swamp milkweed, geraniums, coneflowers, lavender, and a dozen other pretty things whose names she knew by heart.

The stone path Brad had put in for her last year wound past the flower beds to a trio of lilac bushes and a flaming witch hazel. Those had been there when they'd bought the house together four years ago, just after their wedding. She'd never forget the feeling of walking through the door with the keys to their new home, or the way Brad had stood behind her on the brick patio, his arm around her waist and his chin on her shoulder as they looked at the scraggly back yard.

"This is a whole new level for you, darlin'," he had said. They'd met in California, but Brad was from the south. It was there in the slight drawl that shaped his words, there in his unfailing manners and the way he still called her ma'am now and then when he answered a question. "A step or two above cheap plastic pots on an apartment window sill."

"I'm going to have to roll up my sleeves," she'd told him. There wasn't much to look at in the overgrown lot, but it had potential. "Give me a year and you won't believe it's the same place."

The fond memory brought a smile to her lips. "You good?" she asked, gently touching one of the ivy's vines. Then, she went down the patio steps into the garden. She took her time walking along the path, drinking in the sight of the green, growing things around her. The sunlight on the brilliant leaves, the warm soil, and the clean air surrounded her, each of her senses coming alive with the experience of being in her favorite place in the world. She brushed her hair back from her face and knelt on the cobbled path to pluck some weeds that had sprung up around the stems of her bluebells.

It was summer, so Rhiannon—a middle school English teacher by trade—had nowhere to be. She liked to divide her summer work, like research, organizing, and lesson planning, into weekly assignments for herself to make the return to school in the fall just a little less overwhelming. She'd accomplished this week's "To Do" list already, so she spent most of the morning in her garden, pruning the plants, pulling weeds and giving her flowers a drink. As she worked, she settled into a steady rhythm born of years of practice. With a smile hovering around her lips and joy brimming in her heart, she made certain that all was well in her world before she went back into the house.

She had plans for that night. It would be a special evening. She would make sure of it.

To energize herself for the work ahead, she made herself a cup of tea and sipped it as she put on some music. Then, with the strains of her favorite pianist's newest album surrounding her, she danced her way through dusting, wiping, polishing, and sweeping.

Rhiannon liked to clean with lemon. The scent of it was vibrant; it had always made home feel like home. Her father had had an orchard back in California, and she never missed a chance to refresh her home with a little citrus in his honor.

As she tipped her dust pan into the bin, Rhiannon glanced at the clock. 1:15 PM.

The song playing now was cheerful and lively; she spun her way across the kitchen, her floral dress flaring around her legs, and pulled her apron off  of the hook on the back of the pantry door. She looped it over her neck, then tied it around her waist. "Next: dinner."

Rhiannon set the oven to preheat. There was a beef roast in the fridge; she took it out and nestled it into her favorite roasting pan. There were a few heads of garlic in a dish on the counter. In Rhiannon's opinion, the right amount of garlic was always more. She shucked the papery covering away from a head of garlic and began to break cloves off one-by-one until she had a generous handful, and then she used a knife to crush each one on her cutting board so they were easy to peel. These, she arranged in the roasting pan around the beef. A few sprigs of rosemary and thyme from her patio were just what she needed to finish off the recipe.

"There we are," she said to herself, sliding the roasting pan into the oven. She closed the door and bent to look through the door, smiling. "Alright—what's next?"

It was early, but she decided to set the table. She brought out her grandmother's white lace tablecloth, an heirloom that was typically reserved only for Christmas. She and Brad were not big holiday people, but they always had a small Christmas dinner, just the two of them, and that was the only time they broke out such niceties as tablecloths and candles.

But tonight would be special.

Rhiannon put two white tapers into the silver candlesticks Brad had bought her on a business trip to Switzerland last year. Then it was back out to the garden to snip off some of the prettiest blossoms, which she arranged in a bowl in the center of the table. She put out plates, cloth napkins, and silverware, setting everything just so.

She'd make a salad and warm some bread for dinner, but she couldn't start those tasks until just before Brad got home, so Rhiannon had little to do but wait. She brewed herself another cup of tea, made herself a peanut butter sandwich for a belated lunch, turned off the music, and curled up in the living room arm chair with a book.

Rhiannon turned the pages, but she couldn't focus on the story; she had too much on her mind. They'd have to refresh the spare bedroom. New paint for the walls. What color, she wondered? Lavender, maybe. She loved lavender. Or blue—something soft. Something light. Marnie, one of Rhiannon's best friends, could paint something. She'd offered, in fact, in exchange for Rhiannon's help saving the ivy. Marnie was an accomplished artist with a talent for birds and flowers, just the thing for such a room...

As the afternoon wore on, the scent of the roast began to fill the home, overlaying the sweet smells of lemon and flowers, and Rhiannon's stomach growled. She laid a hand on her abdomen and sighed, glancing at the clock. 4:52 PM.

Just as she was getting up to put on a touch of makeup before finishing up dinner, a tinkling chime sounded. Rhiannon reached for her cell phone. It was Brad.

At once, her heart sank. She swiped to pick up the call, leavening her tone with cheer she didn't feel. "Hey, honey."

"Hey, Rhi." The sound of his voice spoke volumes before he could. "I'm not going to make it for dinner. I'm sorry."

With an effort, Rhiannon tried to conceal her disappointment before she replied. She closed her eyes. "Work stuff?" she guessed, as lightly as she could.

"I started the day with two deadlines and I'm endin' it with six." He sighed. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."

She knew he'd try to make it up to her. He always tried. Sometimes he succeeded. She smiled so that he'd hear it in her voice, but she didn't feel it; the smell of the roast beef—Brad's favorite—turned her stomach. It wasn't his fault, and she knew it, but she couldn't help being hurt. Tonight, of all nights...tonight was special. "It's all right, honey. Don't work too hard, okay? And drive carefully. I'll leave a plate in the fridge for you in case I'm already in bed."

"You probably will be. Don't worry about makin' dinner. Just order a pizza if you want and I'll heat up the leftovers when I get there. Rhi?"

"Yeah, Brad?"

"I love you."

"Love you too," she said, looking at the gleaming coffee table, where everything had been arranged just so. Her screen flashed as the line disconnected. She set her phone on the arm of her chair and leaned back, sick with dismay. This happened now and then. More frequently of late. Brad made a steady income, but for him to stay ahead and compete with his peers, the job always had to come first.

It was harder for Rhiannon than it seemed to be for him.

"Well." She pulled herself to her feet. "I guess it's laundry night, then."

Rhiannon made her way around the house to collect the laundry: the rags and dish towels from the kitchen, the hand towels from the bathrooms, the dirty clothes from the hamper in their bedroom. With everything piled into a basket, she went to the little laundry closet tucked away at the end of the hall.

There were chores Rhiannon liked—gardening, cooking, dusting—but laundry wasn't one of them. It was the waiting she didn't like, and the many steps required to finish off a load: check the pockets, hunt for stains and treat them, wash, dry, iron, fold, put away. A couple loads of laundry always put her into a foul mood. It was a running joke between her and Brad.

But she was already in a foul mood tonight, so it didn't matter.

As she separated the whites from the darks, Rhiannon ran her hands along each garment, checking the pockets for her lip balms or Brad's loose change. She shook out a couple of his white work shirts, the ones he looked so good in, and checked the breast pockets. She felt something in one.

He was so forgetful. No matter how many time she asked him to clear out his pockets, she never failed to find something every two or three loads of laundry. She'd ruined half a dozen pairs of his ear buds by washing them. Frowning, Rhiannon slid two fingers into the pocket and pulled out a plastic card.

She looked at it. There was a magnetic strip on one side, so at first she thought it was a credit card, and her first instinct was to call Brad to let him know. He might not have another card on him and he'd need a coffee or two to make it at the office so late. But when she turned the card over, she realized it was a hotel key card.

"The Regency." She dropped the shirt onto the top of the dryer and turned the key over in her hands again.

She had never been to the Regency. It was decent hotel somewhere downtown, the kind with a little bistro inside but not quite nice enough for a door man. The kind a businessman might stay in, were he traveling on the company's dime.

But the Regency was in town. No need to stay at a hotel for business in town. And besides...Brad hadn't been on a business trip in months.

With the key card still in hand, Rhiannon stepped away from the laundry closet. She stood in the hallway for a moment, staring into space.

She was not trying to make sense of it. It had all come together, crystal clear, in the instant she had seen the hotel name.

She knew what it meant.

Rhiannon sorted carefully through the first few emotions that swept into her heart: horror, then pain. Terrible pain. And then anger. She deliberately set each emotion aside, drawing slow, deep breaths to keep herself calm. With her feelings came the impulse to run to her phone, to call Brad, to demand answers. To call her mother, who she knew would jump onto the next flight. To call a friend. Maybe Marnie.

Rhiannon looked down again at the Regency key card as she drifted into the bedroom where she slept every night with her husband, wondering who he'd shared the hotel room with. Whether she knew her. Whether it had been the same woman every night he stayed late at work.

She would find out. But for now, she would focus on getting through the night.

She reached out and laid the key card on Brad's pillow. She slid it into the center with a finger, aligning it just so. There would be no way he'd miss it when he crept in to sleep tonight after heating up his portion of the meal for which Rhiannon had completely lost her appetite.

And Rhiannon—where would she be? Would she wait for him?

She turned and sank down to sit on the bed, placing a hand over her abdomen. She had always loved green, growing things, but this was the most special growing thing of all, still her sweet little secret. And as she sat there, sensing the life within her, she knew what she would do.