My stomach did thirty-nine flip-flops before it settled down to plain old nausea. If I got sick, they'd hear me, and then I'd have to endure a gazillion apologies with excuses about how they should have told me but really thought I knew and was ignoring it to keep my marriage intact. Hearing the words was so much worse than the niggling little suspicions I'd had through the years. My two cousins had turned on the lights and showed me exactly what Drew was, and now I had to deal with it.

I wished I had that little .22 pistol from my nightstand. When the custodian came to clean the church bathrooms after the funeral dinner, there would be my two female cousins, one bullet in each. If only I'd had the good sense to carry a gun in my purse instead of candy bars.

My ears hurt so badly, it sounded as if Betsy was yelling, but she was really just talking in a conversational tone. "Lori Lou wasn't the first, you know. He was looking over the crowd and flirting even at his and Trudy's wedding reception. Only person who doesn't know that Drew is a rich, good-looking, philandering fool is Trudy. She just thinks he's rich and goodlooking. I've always said that if she doesn't know, then I'd let her live in bliss. I heard his newest toy is that new twentyyear-old blond teller at their bank. Her name is Charity something. Trudy gets older and frumpier every day, and his toys get younger and prettier. You've seen her, haven't you?"

"Know exactly who you're talking about. My oldest son asked her out on a date. She turned him down cold. Now I know why. Donnie James doesn't have the money to buy her one of those brand-new Thunderbirds like Drew shelled out the money for."

A moment passed before Marty continued. The cloud of smoke attested to the fact that she was busy burning an inch off the cigarette before she spoke. "Charity is young enough to be his daughter. Hey, so what did you think about Crystal's sneaking off to marry that worthless boyfriend of hers in Las Vegas?"

"Just a minute," Betsy whispered, and I heard the bathroom door squeak.

Maybe I could strangle them with the legs of my ultracontrol panty hose. It would be so satisfying to see their eyes bug out and their faces turn blue. If I put the hose back on after I'd committed justifiable homicide, no one would ever be able to find the murder weapon.

Betsy whispered, "They're all coming out of the church. We can blend in now. Put on your sad face, and for God's sake put a mint into your mouth. I can still smell the smoke from way over here."

The door shut, and I released my breath. I hadn't even realized I was holding it until it gushed out in a great sob. I leaned my head against the cold metal of the stall wall. Its coolness kept me from fainting dead away. It didn't, however, prevent me from curling up in a ball of anger, pain, and tears until my chest ached.

I had always had the perfect family, while my two cousins had messed up their lives with five unwise marriages between them. Now I had found out that the only real difference was that my family had had a sugar coating and theirs didn't.

I talked my jelly-filled legs into supporting me, and a glob of cheesy cellulite bubbled out through the hole in my panty hose as a runner inched its way down to my knees. If I didn't cross my legs, poor, frumpy Trudy might make it through the dinner without a run all the way to her ankles. A conspicuous run would certainly be a disgrace.

My reflection in the mirror almost sent me right out to my car. Big black mascara streaks ran through pink blush. My eyes were swollen. My chin wouldn't stop quivering. I took a deep breath and looked into my own green eyes. My long black hair was a fright. What was I going to do?

The first step was to make myself presentable. I'd focus on one thing at a time and get through the graveside part of the service. After that would be the dinner and the reading of the will. Then I'd deal with what I intended to do about my husband.

I walked out of the ladies' room with my shoulders straight and a fake smile on my face. A lady kept up appearances and never lost her dignity-even when her world had just shattered around her in the stall of the women's bathroom.

Marty, Betsy, and I were required to ride together in the limousine to the cemetery for the final bit of the service. They were whispering when I crawled inside. At least the fat escaping through the hole in my panty hose reminded me that I had a murder weapon at hand. I could strangle them and then shove half my Snickers bar into each of their mouths after they were dead and swear they'd both choked to death while weeping for Great-aunt Gert. No one would doubt frumpy old Trudy's word.

"How you holdin' up?" Marty asked.

"I'm just fine," I told her.

"Well, you look like warmed-over sin," Betsy said.

"And you look absolutely beautiful," I said sarcastically.

Marty became the buffer. "Don't take that tone with her, Trudy. What's the matter with you? She's just tryin' to make you laugh. We didn't know Aunt Gert meant so much to you. We're just happy the old gal finally kicked the bucket and we can go to the grocery store without checkin' around the end of the aisles to make sure we're not goin' to run into her."

"That's not any way to talk about the dead," I said.

"Why not? You're being hateful to the living," Marty snapped.

I turned my head and looked out the window.

They figured I was mourning or in a snit and went back to the latest gossip: whose kid was in trouble with the law, who was sleeping with whom. I didn't care about the latest gossip, but I would have liked to have that list of home-wrecking women they knew all about. I wanted to see the names of the women in Tishomingo, Oklahoma, and the surrounding areas that my husband had slept with. Peace always seemed to come at a high price, and the way my stomach was hurting, the cost of keeping quiet was going to be a full-fledged ulcer.

At the cemetery we were escorted from the limo by three of the men from Gert's church. They acted as if they expected us to go into some kind of wailing fit and were a little disappointed when we didn't.

The pallbearers set the pale pink casket on the fake-grasscovered rise, and everyone gathered in the tent. Three chairs waited for the bereaved great-nieces to sit in right in front of the casket. Sweat poured off my neck and ran in rivers down every wrinkle it could find, wetting the wide strip of elastic at the edge of bra that was biting holes into my rib cage. The fat bubble on my thigh stuck through the panty hose on the other side, and no amount of wiggling would unhinge it.

Through the pain, all I could think about was killing the messengers of the horrible news that my husband had been cheating on me most of my married life. They should have told me the day they found out rather than laughing about it behind my back.

"We are gathered here at this site to remember one more time the life of Gertrude Elizabeth Martin. She lived a long, happy life and has gone on to a better place. She has folded up her tent and gone on home to Jesus," the preacher said.

Jesus had better be ready for a different lifestyle once Gert got to heaven, because there were going to be some major changes up there. Saint Peter could get rid of his little black book with the names of the worthy written in it. Aunt Gert would arrive with a new and updated version tucked under her arm.

The singers began to sing "Amazing Grace," but I didn't hear a word of it. The preacher said a prayer, and as soon as he uttered "Amen," there were people all around us.