And at the center of it all stood Tom, laughing beside Maryanne, who was dressed in dark green and wearing the serene expression of a woman who believed the hardest part of her night was already behind her.
Then he saw me.
The color left his face so fast it was almost elegant.
“Dana,” he said.
A few nearby conversations paused.
He came toward me quickly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Tom.”
“You weren’t invited.”
“No,” I said. “I figured that out.”
Maryanne was staring now. “Tom?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, that old gesture he used whenever he wanted to look as though events had merely become inconvenient rather than morally catastrophic.
“Dana, maybe we should talk somewhere private.”
I looked around the room—the flowers, the wine, the expectant faces.
“No,” I said. “Actually, I think we should talk right here.”
Before he could stop me, someone across the room tapped a glass for attention. Maryanne’s sister, I assumed, already poised to begin some cheerful little toast. I stepped toward her and asked if I might say something first. Confusion moved across her face, but confusion is not refusal, and in under ten seconds I had a microphone in my hand.
The room quieted.
Thirty faces turned toward me.
I took one slow breath.
“Good evening,” I said. “My name is Dana Mercer.”
Some people recognized it immediately.
“I’m Tom’s wife.”
That word wife changed the room. You could feel it. The air didn’t leave, exactly, but it altered shape.
Tom stepped forward. “Dana, stop.”
I continued.
“Earlier this week, my husband sent me a text message. It said, ‘Stuck at work. Happy Valentine’s.’ I believed him until I walked into a restaurant in Oak Brook and saw him kissing another woman.”
Now nobody moved.
“That woman,” I said, turning slightly toward Maryanne, “is here tonight.”
Maryanne stared at Tom. “You told me your marriage was already over.”
“I’m sure he did,” I said quietly.
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