ALMOST

Marion was so thrilled by his words, she almost didn’t mind the chasteness of his kiss. His brother was watching them, after all. Her lips burned where they’d met his. She floated around in a blissful haze the rest of the evening.

And that’s when she decided her husband had to go. If she just divorced him, Peter would feel obligated to take George’s side, and they could never be together. But if she was widowed…

Marion invited his brother for dinner. She was downstairs when Peter arrived, and they stood chatting, laughing at how George was running late, as usual.

She glanced up at the landing with a smile. Earlier, she’d pulled a few threads loose on the rug at the top of the stairs—just enough to look naturally worn.

“Darling, Peter is here. Aren’t you ready yet?” she called.

Predictable as ever, George rushed out of their bedroom. Her trap worked perfectly. The toe of his shoe caught on the frayed edge, and, arms flailing, he pitched headfirst down the stairs.

She still recalled the shock and fear on his face, and the sound—a sharp, final crack that echoed through the foyer.

The coroner later stated that her husband broke his neck on the first somersault and was dead by the time he landed at their feet.

However, it had been more graphic than Marion expected, and she didn’t have to fake her horror at his blank, staring expression.

If the police had any suspicions, with George’s grieving brother there to act as witness, they had no choice but to render a verdict of accidental death.

The sympathetic funeral director was a slender woman—all puffy red hair and big eyes. Flat chested too, Marion noted with faint satisfaction. Inhaling the cloying sweetness of dying lilies, she emphasized her own endowments with pleasure—while careful to keep a solemn expression.

But she was amazed how well attended the funeral was. She’d had no idea George was so popular. Although Peter barely left her side, and she clung to him, enjoying his arms holding her close, it surprised her how hard he took his brother’s death. His red-rimmed eyes were quite unattractive. She preferred him vibrant and admiring, not damp and blotchy.

Over the next few weeks, they spoke on the phone daily and had dinner together once or twice a week. He was attentive and kind, but nothing more. She wished he wasn’t such a gentleman, but thought it was sweet he gave her time to grieve before declaring himself.

Marion waited three months for the sake of propriety. Then she could wait no longer. If he wasn’t going to make a move, she would. She spent hours on her hair and makeup, choosing just the right outfit.

When Peter stepped through the door, he smiled, taking her hands and spreading their joined arms wide as he gazed at her admiringly. “I’m glad to see you’ve stopped wearing black. You look lovely tonight.”