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with her credit card I just came right out and asked her, “Are you Arthur Winters’s wife?”
    She laughed. “I am.” Embarrassed, she admitted that curiosity about me had gotten the better of her. I told her that I met a lot of husbands but few who spoke of their wives the way hers did.
    We talked about her favorite past gifts, from the previous Valentine’s Day’s gray cashmere sweater, which she would love in another color for spring, to the patent leather clutch that she carried everywhere. She mentioned that Arthur’s assistant had a birthday coming up.
    “His other wife,” she called her with a smile. “I always tell him to get her something nice. He does, doesn’t he?”
    I remember wondering if it was a trick, if she was testing me. Arthur did always make sure I picked out something nice for his assistant: two a year, one for her birthday and one for Christmas. I had met Felicia many times. He would often send her in to pick up Marilyn’s gift. Pick up, not pick out. She was an attractive woman in a simple kind of way. But what really struck me about her was how kind she was. That and how much she obviously cared about her boss. The first time I said Arthur’s name to her I noticed her eyes light up. I wondered if maybe there was something going on between them, but she spoke of his wife with such respect and admiration, and quite frankly, she didn’t seem the type—and believe you me, I had seen the type over the years. In the end I decided, sadly and happily, depending on which way you looked at it, that Felicia was in a one-sided relationship with Arthur. And Arthur most definitely had no idea. He cared for Felicia very much, but as far as romantic love went, he had tunnel vision. His Marilyn was all there was. Until one day she wasn’t.
    Like the seasoned saleswoman that I am—third longest tenure in the store—I had Marilyn’s birthday marked on my calendar, and last year it came and went with no call from Arthur, no visit from Felicia. At first I felt betrayed; maybe they had moved on to some younger salesgirl at the swankier Barneys or Bergdorf’s. But I didn’t think so. They all seemed so loyal. Finally I called Felicia at the office, pretending to be alerting her to an upcoming friends-and-family sale, and she told me the horrible news. Marilyn had been diagnosed with end-stage melanoma and had died only six weeks later. Arthur, she said, was devastated. I sent him a letter of condolence, and a few weeks later a box was hand-delivered to me at the store with the kindest note I have ever received from a customer. I read it so many times I know it by heart.
Dear Ruthie,
    For the past twenty years of my life with Marilyn you were a part of every birthday, every Valentine’s Day, and every anniversary. You helped me put so many smiles on her beautiful face. What I wouldn’t give for just one more. Please accept this gift as a thank-you for all those smiles.
    Respectfully,
    Arthur Winters
    I opened the box and there, folded neatly in tissue paper, was the brown and black houndstooth Oleg Cassini scarf.
    *
    “Arrrrrtttttiiee!”
    Oh god. She was screaming for him again. I couldn’t contain myself. “What is it?” I asked rather curtly. I caught myself. “Is there something I can get for you?” A muzzle, a horse tranquilizer?
    “Yes. I need this in a smaller size. Do you see how it gapes here?” she said, pointing to nothing. She had on the Max Hammer dress we were having trouble keeping in stock, in a size medium.
    “You do have to be able to breathe in it, honey,” I said.
    She looked at me as if I was nuts. “Just get me the smaller size, okay? And ask Artie to come in.” She was a nightmare.
    I went to get “Artie.” I thought I detected a bit of embarrassment in his face when I summoned him on her behalf. I could only watch them interact for a second before I had to turn away. How someone as wonderful as Arthur Winters could end up with a gold-digging twinkie like this was