‘Stop calling me. I’m in a meeting,’ my husband snapped. I was already in the Scottsdale hotel lobby, watching him check in with the woman from his office. At checkout, the receptionist handed him an envelope from me. He rushed home fast—and the second he walked into our kitchen, all the color left his face.
“Stop calling me. I’m in a meeting,” my husband snapped. Funny thing was, I was standing less than ten feet away in a hotel lobby in Scottsdale when he said it, watching him lean over the front desk beside a woman young enough to be our daughter. The lobby was all polished stone, soft piano…
