The text message from Carol came through on a lazy Sunday afternoon, just as I was settling into my favorite armchair with a well-thumbed mystery novel. The phone buzzed on the side table, its screen lighting up with a preview of her message: “Had the BEST time last night! Look at this crew!”
I smiled. Carol, my best friend since our college days in the ‘80s, was always the social butterfly of our group. Even now, in our late fifties, she had more energy than my battery-operated can opener. I tapped the screen, and the photo loaded.
It was a great picture. There they all were, our core group of friends, gathered around a familiar oak bar at The Rustic Tap, our local haunt for the last twenty years. Everyone was beaming, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Mike was making his signature goofy face. Susan had her head thrown back in a laugh. It was a perfect snapshot of joy and friendship. It made me feel warm, though I’d missed the party due to a prior commitment with my grandkids.
“Looks like a blast!” I typed back. “Wish I could’ve been there!”
I was about to set the phone down when something caught my eye. In the background, just over Mike’s left shoulder, was the bar’s mirror. It reflected a part of the room that wasn’t in the main shot. I’ve always been a curious sort—my husband calls it my “Nancy Drew complex”—so I did what anyone would do. I pinched my fingers on the screen to zoom in.
The image pixelated for a second before sharpening. It was a couple, locked in what looked like a very intimate, very private conversation in a dimly lit booth. The woman had her back to the camera, but her profile was visible in the mirror’s reflection. The man was leaning in close, his hand resting on her arm. He was turned slightly away.
My breath hitched. I knew that sweater. It was a distinctive cream-colored cable-knit. I’d been with Susan when she bought it on our trip to Vermont last fall. I’d even teased her about how much she’d spent on it. “It’s pure cashmere, Linda!” she’d said, laughing. “A girl deserves a little luxury!”
And the man? The set of his shoulders, the salt-and-pepper hair cut short against his neck… It looked an awful lot like Bob. Susan’s husband, Bob.
But that was impossible. Bob was away. Susan had told us all at book club just last week that Bob was on a fishing trip with his brothers in Michigan. “A whole week of peace and quiet,” she’d said with a wistful sigh. We’d all nodded in understanding, sharing a silent moment of spousal empathy.
My heart started to thump a strange, irregular rhythm against my ribs. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. Susan and Bob? They were the cornerstone of our social circle. They hosted the annual Fourth of July barbecue. They were the couple who held hands during movie night. They’d just celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary with a renewal of vows that had made us all misty-eyed.
I zoomed in further, my thumb trembling slightly. The image became a blurry mess of colored squares. I was seeing things. I had to be. This was a trick of the light, a case of mistaken identity fueled by one too many mystery novels. I set the phone down, my mind reeling.
But I couldn’t leave it alone. The Nancy Drew in me wouldn’t allow it. I picked the phone back up and studied the photo again. This time, I looked at the main group. There was Susan, in the foreground, laughing. But the cream-colored sweater… she wasn’t wearing it in the main photo. She had on a green blouse.
So the woman in the booth wasn’t Susan? A wave of relief washed over me. Of course. It was someone else. I was an idiot for even thinking it.
Then I saw it. On the table in front of the couple in the booth, next to two cocktail glasses, was a small black clutch. And sitting atop the clutch, looking utterly out of place, was a single, large, antique silver key.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. I knew that key. I’d held it in my own hand. It was the key to Susan’s late mother’s house—a place she’d inherited but never sold, filled with memories and old furniture. She’d shown it to us once, explaining it was a replica of an old skeleton key, too bulky for her keychain, so she often carried it separately in her evening bag for good luck. A tangible piece of her mother. “My little good luck charm,” she’d called it.
The woman in the booth was Susan. There was no doubt anymore. The sweater, the key. But the man… I squinted, trying to see past the pixels. He shifted slightly in the reflection, and a glint of light caught on his wrist. A watch. A large, chunky, stainless steel chronograph watch. The exact same watch Bob’s children had pooled their money to buy him for his fiftieth birthday. He never took it off. He was always showing it off.
It was Bob.
I felt a cold dread seep into my stomach. The laughter and smiles in the foreground of the photo now seemed like a cruel joke. My best friend’s party photo was hiding a secret that could shatter our entire friend group.
What was I supposed to do? Do you tell your best friend that her husband, whom everyone adores, might be cheating? With her best friend? Do you confront Susan? Do you call Bob and ask how the fishing was, hoping he’d slip up?
The weight of the secret felt immense. This wasn’t a plot in a novel. This was real life. These were people I loved. Carol, who was fiercely loyal and would be devastated. Mike, who had been Bob’s roommate in college. The domino effect of pain was unthinkable.
I spent the next hour in a haze, staring out the window, the book forgotten. I thought about all the barbecues, the birthdays, the vacations we’d all taken together. I thought about Susan helping Carol through her divorce. I thought about Bob fixing my gutter last spring without me even asking.
The phone buzzed again. It was Carol.
“So?? Did you see how great we all look? 😊 We missed you! Next time, no excuses!”
Her innocence broke my heart. I looked back at the photo, at the secret hidden in plain sight. A single moment, frozen in time, threatening to thaw into a world of hurt.
I knew I had to say something. But to whom? And how? The right words wouldn’t come. There were no right words for this.
I picked up my phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I started to type a reply to Carol, then deleted it. I started again. Finally, I settled on a truth I could share.
“It’s a great photo,” I typed, my heart heavy. “Zooming in reveals all kinds of things, doesn’t it?”