It was early afternoon when I pulled up to our house, an old two-story farmhouse set out in the Kansas countryside surrounded by large fields of wheat and alfalfa. Before you ask, no, I’m not a farmer. For that matter, I wouldn’t know one end of a tractor from another. The fields belong to someone else, thank God.

My name is Bill Jacobs. Maybe you’ve heard of me, or read some of my work. I’m an art critic whose weekly articles are syndicated in about 200 newspapers across the country and featured on a number of large mainstream websites. I do most of my work here, in this quaint country house my wife of eight years and I decided we would call home. I do spend some time on the road, about one to three days a week, depending on what it is I’m writing about at the time.

My wife, Denise, works as a surgeon at the county hospital located in what the locals here call a town. Don’t get me wrong – they’re good people -- honest, decent, hard-working folks who take care of their families and try to do right. The kind of people who look you in the eye when they shake your hand. It’s just that the town isn’t quite what I’m used to, having lived in southern California most of my life.

I met her at an exhibit in Los Angeles. I was covering it for the paper I wrote for and she was there taking a break from her studies. At the time, she was a student finishing her medical degree. I remembered that day as if it were yesterday. I was examining a piece of art, making notes in my pad when she approached me.

“That’s an interesting piece,” she said.

“Think so?” I asked.

“Yes, I do,” she responded. “What do you think?”

“Personally, I’ve seen more cerebral work done by six-year-old children with crayons,” I told her.

“Don’t you like abstract art?” she asked.

“I like abstract art okay,” I said. “But this ... This isn’t abstract. It’s lazy. No doubt done by someone who hasn’t sold anything in a few months. Probably figured he’d slap some paint on a canvas, stick his little finger out and spout some psychobabble about inner conflict or something. He’ll probably sell it, but I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for it myself.”

“Are you an art buyer?” she asked.

“No, I’m a critic,” I said. “Bill Jacobs,” I said, offering my hand.

“Denise Blackman,” she said, taking my hand. “You’re a real art critic?” I chuckled at that.

“Yup,” I said. “They actually pay me real money to write horrible things about stuff like this. Some artists actually think it’s a badge of honor to be insulted by me.” She laughed at that.

“Sounds like an interesting life,” she said. I shrugged my shoulders.

“It can be,” I said. “Mostly, I travel to see exhibits like this, maybe talk to an artist or two. Most of my time is spent on a computer, though. It can get rather boring. What about you?”

“I’m a medical student,” she said. “I start my residency next year.”

“Now that sounds exciting,” I told her.

“It’s all work and no play,” she said. “That’s why I came here. I need a break from studying.”

“I can understand that,” I told her. “Now if you want to see some REAL art, take a gander at that piece over there,” I added, pointing to a picture of a country farmhouse covered in snow. “Tell me what you think of it.” She looked at the piece and her face lit up.

“That kinda reminds me of where I grew up in Kansas,” she said. “I love the way the moonlight reflects off the house.”

“Are you sure it’s moonlight?” I asked. “Stand in front of it and tell me what you think.” She walked to the picture and I followed her. She looked shocked as she stood in front of it.

“It looks so much different from here,” she said.

“Indeed,” I said. “The brush strokes the artist used and way the colors are blended, it’s almost like looking at a different picture depending on where you stand. And if you look close enough, you’ll see detail here you never would have picked up over there.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I like this.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “You’re now an art critic.” She laughed.

“Oh no,” she said. “I could never do what you do. I’d be too afraid of hurting someone’s feelings.”

We spent the next two hours looking at the rest of the exhibit. I had to admit, I liked hearing her input on different portraits. I hated it when she had to leave, but I understood that she had to get back to class. We exchanged numbers and email addresses before she left.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Bill,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “I’d like to do this again sometime.”

“So would I,” I told her.

We spent the next few months getting to know each other and started dating exclusively. At first I was concerned she might be put off by the fact that I was six years older than her, but she wasn’t. She certainly did make me feel like a younger man. One thing led to another and before you know it, we got married.

I thought I had hit the jackpot. Denise was – and still is, in my opinion – a very warm and loving woman. Sex between us wasn’t just good – it was over-the-top great. She never complained about my work schedule, and never complained when I had to travel across the country to review an exhibit.

At the same time, her hours varied greatly, as she worked through her five-year residency. Sometimes she worked a normal day shift, but often had to work late or work after hours depending on what was going on. We discussed this in the beginning and I had no problem with her odd schedule, even though it often made it difficult for us to connect in the evenings or on weekends.

After her residency, she was offered a job at the hospital in her home town. They had just put in a fancy new surgical center so the locals wouldn’t have to go hundreds of miles to get surgery. By then, I had become syndicated, so it really didn’t matter where I worked, physically. The Internet was my office and I could submit pieces from anywhere on the planet, so long as I had web access. So we packed our things, sold the condo and headed to Kansas.

The house we bought was a two-story farm house that supposedly dated back to the 19th century. Everything had been upgraded so it sported all the modern conveniences, including central air conditioning. I made sure it had cable access, which included high-speed Internet – that was crucial for my work.

We turned one bedroom on the second floor into my office, and planned to use the third bedroom as a nursery. The master bedroom was huge and included a nicely-appointed master bathroom that could easily accommodate both of us at the same time.

The biggest adjustment for me was the fact that nights in the country were actually dark. I mean, pitch-black. You couldn’t even see your hand if you put it in front of your face. This was a far cry from what I was used to in the bright lights of the big city.

What I really loved, though, was the view of the night sky. I had never seen so many stars before in my life. I used to have a small telescope when I was a kid, and enjoyed looking through it at night, but nothing prepared me for this. Seeing my interest in the night sky, Denise surprised me with a nice eight-inch telescope that had all the accessories needed for taking pictures. Naturally, I thanked her that night in bed – repeatedly.

It took a while for me to get the hang of astrophotography – there’s a lot more to it than just pointing a camera and clicking. But I eventually figured it out and soon, my office was adorned with pictures of planets, galaxies and brightly-colored nebulae. Denise had even taken a few to decorate her office.

The most fun for me, though, were the nights Denise and I sat out back with the scope. After watching the stars for a while, we would often make love right there in the back yard, under the night sky. I felt like I was on top of the world.

The first seven years or so of our marriage seemed idyllic – at least to me. I had a good job I loved, a nice home and a beautiful loving wife. What more could a man want, I thought. We had even started discussing children. Denise had been on birth control, and wanted to wait until she was more established, which I understood.

Then I started seeing subtle changes in her. Her hours got longer, more erratic. She became short-tempered over the littlest things and we argued over ridiculous issues. I figured it was the stress of her job, so I didn’t say much.

One year, she was asked to attend a medical conference in Wichita. The conference lasted five days, starting on a Monday. She seemed pensive and out of sorts before she left, but she wouldn’t say why. I tried to make love to her the night before she left, but she begged off, claiming a headache.

The next day, she left, promising to call me every night. I had a major exhibit to review that week in New York and, looking at my itinerary, found that I could meet her in Wichita that Friday and come home with her. I hoped she would appreciate the surprise.

The exhibit went well, and I managed to get my article done by my weekly deadline. Denise called every night as she promised, but I got the feeling that she would rather do anything other than talk to me. I decided not to say anything about the upcoming Friday. I figured that maybe we could even spend the weekend there.

I got to the hotel where Denise was staying and looked all over for her, but couldn’t find her. After verifying my identity, the hotel said she had not checked out of her room yet, and might be in one of the conferences still taking place. So I placed a call.

“Are you alright, Bill?” she asked in a quiet voice when she answered the call.

“Yes,” I said. “I thought I’d surprise you by stopping by on my way back from New York. I figured we could spend the weekend here and then go home together. Where are you? Are you in a seminar or something?”

“Well, yes, I am,” she said, sounding irritated. I could hear someone say something to her in the background, but I couldn’t make out what was being said. I could tell Denise covered the phone so I couldn’t hear her response and wondered why she would do that. After a few moments, she uncovered the phone and spoke to me.

“Listen, sweetie,” she said. “That’s so sweet of you to surprise me like this, but I’m afraid I won’t be very good company right now.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve been invited to observe a couple of procedures over at the hospital here by the head of surgery, so I’ll be here for another day or so,” she said. “I didn’t know about it until just a couple hours ago. I’m sorry. I’ll be home Sunday night and we can make up for it then.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said. “It’s just that I’ve missed you all week.”

“I miss you, too,” she said. “Please, go on home and I’ll see you Sunday night, okay? Promise.”

“Okay,” I said. “See you then. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she said. She didn’t immediately close the connection and I thought I heard her say something about dodging a bullet. It’s possible I didn’t hear her correctly, but that’s what it sounded like. So I went back to the airport and caught a flight back home. To say I wasn’t very happy was an understatement. For the first time in our married life, I began to wonder if she was cheating on me.

Denise did get back on Sunday. Well, technically, it was actually Monday, at about 2:30 am. She tried to move quietly so as not to wake me up, but I was already awake. She put her suitcases in the closet, then went into the bathroom. She came out a few minutes later wearing a floor-length robe and climbed into bed. I couldn’t help but notice the distinct odor of cigar smoke, after shave and something else when she tried to cuddle next to me.

“Please go take a shower,” I mumbled. “You smell like an ashtray.”

“I’m too tired to take a shower,” she said.

“Fine,” I told her, getting up. “I’ll go sleep on the couch.” I grabbed my pillow and a blanket and headed downstairs. I didn’t sleep too well that night, only drifting off a couple times. I got up at 8:00, when Denise stumbled into the kitchen to start coffee.

“Thought you were going to be home yesterday,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping the sleep from her eyes. I could still detect the odor of cigar and after shave, so I kept my distance. “It went longer than I originally planned and I had a hell of a time getting a flight last night. Why were you such a sourpuss when I came in?”

“Sorry, you know how sensitive I am to odors,” I said. “I could smell cigar smoke and after shave all over you when you came in this morning. What were you doing, anyway?”

“Dr. Branstead took a smoke break on the way to the airport,” she said. “I didn’t even think that you might smell it on me.”

“And the after shave?” I asked. “Was that his?”

“Probably,” she said.

“You had to have been awful close to get it all over you like that,” I said.

“He gave me a goodbye hug when he dropped me off at the airport,” she said.

“That must’ve been some hug,” I told her.

“Look, nothing happened, alright?” she snapped.

“You’re mighty defensive over something that never happened,” I said. “I just asked a simple question.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry, I was wiped when I left there and I was just too tired to even think about a shower when I got home.”

“So, what’s your schedule like?” I asked her.

“I don’t have to be at the hospital until 11:00 today,” she said. “I’m meeting our new head of surgery and then I have a couple procedures this afternoon. I’ll probably be late getting home.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll order a pizza, then. I’d better get to it, see what my week looks like.”

“Bill,” Denise said as I turned to go upstairs. “I really am sorry we didn’t connect this weekend.”

“Me too,” I said with a wry smile. “Maybe next weekend.”

As predicted, Denise didn’t get home until after 8:00 pm, and of course, she was exhausted. I didn’t complain too much as I knew how hard she works. I had an exhibit to review in Denver that week, so between that and her flaky schedule, we saw very little of each other that week. We did manage, however, to spend some time together over the weekend, but I sensed there was something else on Denise’s mind.

About a month or so later, Denise announced that we were invited to a social function the hospital was holding. The reason, she said, was to introduce the new regional director. So, I got my best suit cleaned and accompanied her to the event.

Denise looked stunning in her black dress, which highlighted her figure quite nicely. It wasn’t risque by any means but she still looked good enough to eat. I was proud to escort my lovely wife to the dinner that night, and that’s where I met the new regional director – Dr. George Branstead.

He came up to us when we arrived at the event, and I noticed that he appeared to be a bit older than me, with a full head of dark hair that showed some gray at the temples. He filled out his suit nicely, and looked like someone who worked out. I also noticed that he was about three inches taller than me and outweighed me by a good 20 pounds, all of which appeared to be muscle. I instantly recognized the after shave he wore and the slight scent of cigar smoke that seemed to hang around him.

“This must be the famous art critic, Bill Jacobs,” he said as he held out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he added as we shook hands. “In fact, I have you to thank for keeping me from making a bad decision.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Well, that article you wrote about the exhibit in Washington, D.C., a couple years ago,” he said. “My wife and I had been thinking about getting a couple new pieces of art that were being shown there, but after you did that review, we changed our minds.”

“Glad to be of service,” I said. “I take it you already know my wife from that conference in Wichita.”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s quite a woman you have there.” I noticed the glances between them and wondered if there was something else going on.

“Yes, I agree,” I told him.

“She’s quite the surgeon,” he added. “I have big plans for her and I’m quite sure she’s up to the task,” he said, looking at her. I noticed her face turning a bit red and wondered what it was that would embarrass her like that.

The evening went fairly well. Dinner was nice, and we heard from several higher-ups about Dr. Branstead – how wonderful he was, how much he did for the community, blah, blah, blah. Then we were dismissed to enjoy the open bar and the dance floor.

Denise and I danced several times, and she took a turn or two with Dr. Branstead. I watched as they danced, and it seemed to me they were a little closer to each other than I considered appropriate. More than once, I saw him whisper something to Denise, causing her to laugh. A couple of times, she glanced my way after he said something to her, and I wondered what it was they were discussing. He escorted her back to me and made a show of offering her hand to me.

“I think it only fitting the good doctor have the last dance with her husband,” he said with a smirk. I thanked him and took Denise’s hand. I held her close as we danced and I noticed the cigar/after-shave smell on her. I wondered if this was how she got his stink on her at Wichita.

Finally, the dance was over and we left. Looking around, I saw Branstead leaving the venue alone and wondered where his wife was. We left and drove home.

“I noticed George was alone tonight,” I said. “What happened to his wife?”

“He said she wasn’t feeling good enough to come,” Denise said.

“You two seemed to hit it off nice,” I told her. “Do I have anything to be worried about?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You’re the only one I love.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “And you’re the only one I love. So, what are these so-called ‘big plans’ he has for you?”

“There’s been talk of having surgeons travel to do procedures at different hospitals in the area,” she said. “I just happen to be on the list.”

“I see,” I said. “It sounded to me like he had something else in mind.”

“I don’t know what that could be,” she said. I had never caught her in a lie before, but something about all this didn’t sit right with me. I decided to drop the subject until I had more information.

Things were a bit strained over the next couple months. Denise’s schedule was even worse than before. She was placed on a team that saw her traveling to clinics and hospitals throughout this part of the state and I had no idea when she would be working. We hardly ever saw each other, and when we did, it was only to say “hello” and “goodbye.”

Frustrated, I tried to get her to change her schedule so we could spend time together, but it seemed that she was more concerned about working her way up the ladder than anything else. Something about all of this didn’t quite pass my reporter’s “smell test.” Part of me thought about hiring a private investigator, but a couple of things stopped me. First of all, if she was innocent, she would be royally pissed over me spying on her, and with good cause. Second, I didn’t want to spend a lot of money only to find out nothing was going on.

Fortunately, I had a lot of friends in the news business who were investigative reporters, something Denise didn’t know. So I reached out to a couple to see what they could dig up on this Dr. Branstead and his traveling medicine show.

I was in Seattle reviewing an exhibit when I got a call from Denise telling me she would be in Topeka for the weekend for some kind of meeting. I had just about had it with all of this and it took everything I had to hold my temper.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you were planning for us to get away when you got back from Seattle this weekend. I’ll make it up to you.” God, if I only had a nickel for every time I heard that phrase, I thought. I counted to ten before responding. “Bill?” she asked when I didn’t respond. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I said. “Who else is going to this meeting?”

“Well, Dr. Branstead,” she said. Of course, I thought to myself. “There’s several others I know. Some from my hospital and others from hospitals across the state.”

“Okay,” I said. “You gotta do what you gotta do. I’m not happy, but I understand.”

“You’re the best,” she said. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” I said before we ended the call. This shit has to stop, I thought as I put my phone away. I finished going through the exhibit and made my way to the hotel. As I was eating, my phone rang again. It was Ralph Williams, a friend of mine who works as a reporter for the Kansas City Star.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey, Bill,” he said. “How’s it hanging?”

“Yup,” I said, causing him to chuckle.

“That good, huh?” he asked sarcastically.

“Pretty much,” I said. “You find something?”

“I sure did,” he said. “Your Dr. George Branstead is quite the guy.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked.

“Well, let’s put it this way,” Ralph said. “He’s richer than God, married to a trophy wife who can’t stand him, knows everyone who’s anyone and has a well-deserved reputation as a philanderer. He loves married women, by the way. In more ways than one, if you catch my drift.”

“Unfortunately, I do,” I said.

“Rumor mill has it that he’s currently seeing a cute little blonde-haired surgeon from the middle of the state,” he said, causing my heart to sink.

“You have a name for this blonde surgeon?” I asked.

“No, I don’t,” Ralph said. “But I can tell you she’s a real corn-fed Kansas farm girl. Cute as a button from the photos I saw.”

“Photos?” I asked. “You have photos?”

“Yeah, sure do,” he said. “They were spotted at a gathering of healthcare pros here a few weeks back. Looked pretty chummy with each other if you ask me.”

“Can you email me some of those photos?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Be happy to.”

“Thanks, Ralph, I appreciate it,” I said.

“Any time, old friend,” he said. “By the way, turns out the good doctor was caught in a scandal out west a few years ago.”

“What kind of a scandal?” I asked.

“The kind that sees big-name doctors get a polite shove out the door, if you know what I mean,” he said. “I don’t have all the details, but I know someone who does. I’ll send you her info with the pictures. She writes for a society gossip blog out in California. She’s expecting your call.”