Richard Whitman valued many things in life.

His marriage.

His family.

His reputation.

The last one was currently being torn apart over lemon bars and coffee in half the kitchens across the subdivision.

The rumor itself had started innocently enough—or as innocently as gossip ever could.

Three weeks earlier, during a particularly warm summer evening, Richard and his wife had returned home from a neighborhood dance hosted by the church social committee. They had arrived later than expected, believing everyone else long asleep. What neither of them realized was that Mrs. Carver from two houses down had been sitting awake by her window waiting for her husband to come home from a fishing trip.

She had seen Richard carry his laughing wife over his shoulder across the front lawn.

She had seen him disappear into the house.

And she had heard something crash shortly afterward.

In reality, it had been an umbrella stand knocked over in the hallway.

Unfortunately, reality rarely survived contact with suburban gossip.

Within days, Mrs. Carver had repeated the story to her bridge club. The bridge club told their husbands. Their husbands told golfing buddies. Those golfing buddies told their wives.

By the following Sunday, the story had transformed dramatically.

Apparently Richard and his wife possessed the sort of marriage that caused furniture to break regularly.

Apparently neighbors had heard "all sorts of things" through open windows over the years.

Apparently Richard's wife had once purchased a replacement headboard.

Apparently someone had seen Richard buying flowers on a random Tuesday.

The neighborhood had combined these unrelated facts into a narrative of shocking proportions.

The Whitmans, it seemed, were wildly and enthusiastically in love.

A scandal by 1950s suburban standards.

Richard first learned of the rumor at work.

A colleague slapped him on the shoulder while they stood near the coffee machine.

"Didn't know you had it in you, Dick."

Richard frowned.

"Had what in me?"

The man grinned.

The grin immediately caused concern.

Within five minutes Richard wished he had never asked.

By lunchtime half the office seemed oddly amused whenever he entered a room.

By dinnertime he looked ready to drive directly into Lake Michigan.

His wife discovered something was wrong the moment he walked through the front door.

He loosened his tie.

Sat heavily at the kitchen table.

And stared into space.

The concern on her face deepened.

Richard rubbed both hands over his face.

"Do you happen to know why my entire office thinks we're some sort of traveling circus?"

The confusion only increased.

Five minutes later he explained.

The silence that followed lasted nearly ten seconds.

Then she laughed.

Actually laughed.

Richard stared.

"Oh, that's nice."

The laughter worsened.

"They think we're breaking furniture."

More laughter.

"And apparently Mrs. Henderson has informed everyone that we still act like newlyweds."

The laughter became impossible to contain.

Richard pointed accusingly.

"See? That's exactly the problem."

She attempted to ask how that was a problem.

"Because now every time I walk outside somebody smirks at me."

The amusement dancing across her face nearly finished him.

For the next several days the situation became unbearable.

Women smiled knowingly whenever his wife entered a room.

Men offered Richard congratulations for absolutely nothing.

One particularly bold neighbor winked while returning a borrowed ladder.

The worst part was that denying the rumor only made people believe it more.

Eventually, one evening, he sat beside his wife on the porch swing while twilight settled over the neighborhood.

The gossip had not entirely disappeared, but it was beginning to fade.

At last Richard sighed.

"I suppose there are worse things people could say."

He looked across the lawn toward the white fence he had painted himself.

"I spent years worrying about people thinking we weren't happy."

His hand found hers.

"And apparently our biggest problem is that people think we're too happy."