The Replacement Wife (19 page)

Camille watched in disbelief as he sawed off a piece of his steak and popped it in his mouth, as though the subject were closed as far as he was concerned. It was the final straw; she felt something inside her snap. Her voice rose, and she was only dimly aware of other diners glancing their way. “It was easier for you, wasn’t it, just to walk away? Easier than having to face up to your responsibilities.”

He sighed and put his fork down. “I had a job to do,” he said. “You know that.”

“Wasn’t it also your job to look after your children?”

“I couldn’t be with you all the time,” he said defensively.

“How about
some
of the time? We would have settled for that.”

“Cam, I don’t think . . .” Holly started to say.

Camille ignored her. The feelings she’d kept tamped down for so long continued to bubble up. “Did you honestly think you could do as you damn well pleased and
not
have us resent you?”

“Speak for yourself,” Holly muttered.

“Deny it all you like, but I know the truth,” Camille went on, her voice mounting to a tremulous pitch. She realized to her horror she sounded more than a little unhinged, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her anger was an express train hurtling down the tracks. “You were a crap dad! There, I said it. And if you’re looking for an apology, you’re not getting one.”

Camille braced herself for a blast of fury or at the very least a show of indignation. But strangely, her dad seemed more concerned than angered. He leaned in, placing a hand on her arm. She saw only worry in his eyes. “What is it, Cam? What’s wrong? This isn’t like you.”

Just like that her anger drained away, tears rising in its place. “My cancer’s back,” she choked out.

For the longest time, he just sat there staring at her uncomprehendingly. When at last he spoke, he sounded deeply shaken, which surprised her—she hadn’t expected him to get emotional, or maybe she’d only hoped he wouldn’t, because black-and-white was easier than dealing with shades of gray. “Baby, I’m so sorry. For you to have to go through that again . . .” He shook his head, and then, true to form, forced a game smile and said, “But you beat it the last time. And with all the new drugs that have come along since then, I’m sure you’ll—”

“It’s too late for that,” she cut him off.

The color drained from his face beneath his golfer’s tan. “Are you telling me there’s no hope?” Camille just sighed while Holly discreetly dabbed at her eyes. “There must be something that can be done,” he said, his shoulders slumping. For the first time ever, he looked his age.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “But there is something
you
can do.”

“Anything. You name it,” he said eagerly. Camille pictured him reaching for his checkbook, his automatic reflex through the years whenever she or Holly had hit a rough patch. She supposed it was his way of showing he cared, but he would have to do better than that from now on.

“Be there for my kids,” she told him.

AT WORK, CAMILLE
referred all new business to Dara. She had neither the time nor energy to do more than tend to her existing clients. No one would blame her if she walked away altogether, but she needed the distraction work provided. It gave her a reason, other than her husband and children, to get out of bed each morning. She was like a farmer nurturing the seeds she’d planted. It gave her hope to see a budding romance blossom and kept her from being crushed under the weight of knowing there was no hope for her. She was bolstered when Laura Shapiro told her that David the professor had popped the question, when Sam Braverman took her advice and ditched his hairpiece, and when Alex Wilcox’s date with Ellen Pratt, a smart hospital administrator his age—not the trophy wife the forty-two-year-old hedge fund manager had envisioned for himself—went so well he asked her to go away with him for the weekend.

There were two clients, however, who’d defied all her efforts thus far: Kat Fisher and Stephen Resler. So she was encouraged when she met with Stephen, the day after her ill-fated dinner with her dad, and learned his date with Carole Fellows, the thirty-seven-year-old attorney she’d fixed him up with, had been a success. “You were right about Carole,” he told her over coffee at the Starbucks near his firm’s Wall Street offices. “She’s really something. Not to mention she’s an even bigger Yankees fan than I am.” He grinned. Stephen lived for the Yankees; he’d have sold his car if need be, he’d once joked, to pay for season tickets. “Not only that, she gets me, you know?”

Camille was pleased to hear it. “So, you weren’t put off by her line of work?”

“Not at all,” he said. “Jesus. She has stories that make my divorce seem like a walk in the park.” Camille gave him a quizzical look and he admitted, “Yeah, we talked about it, but I wasn’t the one who brought it up. She asked me, so I told her. And you know what?” His blue eyes sparkled. “It wasn’t a turnoff for her. In fact, she told me she wished she’d known me back then. She said if she’d been my divorce lawyer, she’d have made damn sure I didn’t get screwed.”

Camille smiled. “So I guess this means you’d go out with her again.”

“Already on it. I’m taking her to the ball game on Saturday. Then we’ll see who’s the biggest Yankees fan.” He chuckled as he sipped his coffee, and she thought,
He made it to first base, at least
.

“I have a good feeling about this,” she told him.

He shrugged, his optimism all at once giving way to caution. “Yeah, well, it’s too soon to say.”

“Just be careful to—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “Keep my mouth shut about my ex.”

Camille was smiling as they parted ways. It looked as if the hard-charging, bullheaded Stephen Resler had finally met his match. Which reminded her: She still hadn’t heard back from Elise. She automatically reached for her cell phone. But no, she had to wait, let Elise come to her. It was a tough decision, and tough decisions weren’t made overnight. Nevertheless, she fretted the whole way back to her office. What would she do if Elise’s answer was no? It wasn’t as if she had a Plan B. The deeply kind, down-to-earth schoolteacher was the only person she knew who ticked all the boxes.

Plenty of women would be interested in a handsome, well-heeled widower, but how many would be willing to take on a ready-made family or have the patience to wait until he was ready to love again? Edward, left to his own devices, might pick the wrong person, which would be worse than if he ended up alone. If she couldn’t always be there, she wanted her children to always know a mother’s love. Elise would be a loving stepmother—that much she was certain of.

DARA WAS SIFTING
through the stack of applications that had arrived in that day’s mail when Camille arrived back at the office. Dara held up one of the headshots. “What do you think?”

“She’s pretty,” Camille said, giving it a cursory glance.

“Um. You don’t think she’s a tad . . . masculine?”

Camille hung up her coat and sat down at her desk. “Are you going somewhere with this?”

“Yeah.” Dara thrust the photo out so she could get a closer look. “It’s a man. In drag.”

“Oh.” Camille could see now what should’ve been obvious at first glance: the strong jaw and neck, the stubbled cheeks beneath a thick layer of foundation. She shrugged. “Well, it takes all kinds. I’m sure he’ll find someone.” If not through the Harte to Heart Agency, then perhaps the drag-queen scene.

“It’s not him I’m worried about, it’s you,” said Dara, swinging a stiletto-heeled boot around as she crossed her legs. Her brow was furrowed beneath her straight-cut black bangs. “In the old days, you’d have spotted that right away. You’re working too hard. You need to take some time off.”

“I’m fine,” Camille replied impatiently.

“No one said you had to die with your boots on.”

“I’m not dead yet, so back off.”

“Whatever you say, Boss,” Dara said smartly, swiveling her chair around to face her desk.

“I’m not your boss anymore,” Camille reminded her, a smile edging its way onto her face. She’d recently promoted Dara from assistant to partner, with an eye toward her taking the helm one day. “Look, I hear you, and I promise as soon as I—” The phone rang before she could finish the sentence.

It was Kat Fisher.

“Camille? I’m glad I caught you.”

Camille said brightly, “Well, you beat me to it. I was going to call you. I just spoke with Gabriel Noonan, and he’s eager to meet you.” More like smitten the instant he’d laid eyes on Kat’s headshot. When Kat didn’t react, she prompted, “The guy I was telling you about? The art dealer?”

“Great.” Kat sounded distracted. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m having some people over for dinner this Saturday and was hoping you and your husband could come.”

Camille was about to decline the invitation but thought better of it. Dara was right; she
had
been working too hard, and an evening out in a relaxed atmosphere among fun, interesting people might be just what the doctor ordered. “Sounds good, but I’ll have to check with Edward.”

“Tell him I refuse to take no for an answer,” Kat said playfully. “I need something to remind me of what I’m playing for, and if that handsome husband of yours can’t do it, no one can.”

CHAPTER NINE

“W
hat’s your hurry? Have another drink,” Kat said after she’d ushered out the last of the other guests.

Edward had risen to his feet, and now he glanced at his watch. He wondered how he’d gotten roped into going to this dinner party in the first place. When Camille had bailed at the last minute, saying she wasn’t feeling well, and then had urged him to go without her so as not to disappoint their hostess, he should have put his foot down. It wasn’t until Kat greeted him at the door and he recognized her as the striking woman who’d caught his eye at the meet-and-greet that he understood what this was: a setup. Kat Fisher, for all intents and purposes, was his “date.” Sickened by the realization, it had been all he could do to act normal with Kat and her other guests, an effort that had left him drained.

“I really should go,” he said, smiling. “It’s late.”

“Not that late,” she cajoled, putting a hand on his arm. “Just one more drink. I’ve barely had a chance to talk to you all evening, the way my friend Barbara had you corralled.” Already, he’d forgotten which one Barbara was. The attractive blond stylist or the pudgy brunette stock analyst?

Kat, on the other hand, was the kind of woman you wouldn’t forget. Especially in the form-fitting, midnight-blue cocktail dress she had on. She was a real stunner, he had to admit, with her willowy build and exotic features—the product of a German father and Vietnamese mother, he’d learned over supper. Intelligent, too, with the kind of smarts they don’t teach in college. Camille had chosen well, he thought bitterly. No man in his right mind would reject what Kat had to offer. Though, at present, he could hardly be described as a man in his right mind.

“Well, I suppose I could stay a few more minutes,” he relented. He didn’t want to be rude. This had to be awkward for Kat, too, and she was trying her best. Nothing would come of it, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Still, he thought longingly of his easy chair at home as he sank onto the low-slung sofa in Kat’s sleekly appointed living room, which was more stylish than comfortable.

It had been a rough week. One of his favorite patients, sweet old Mrs. Coleman, who was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, had showed up twice thinking she had an appointment when she didn’t. Then there had been the run-in with Howard Brody, a petty dictator in administration, who had given him grief about budget overruns. To cap it off, his son had thrown a tantrum as he was getting ready to leave tonight: Zach was bent out of shape because his Nintendo was off-limits for the time being, a consequence of poor grades on his last report card.

And always, like a splinter in his heart, there was the thought of Camille.

Forty-five minutes later he was still ensconced on the sofa in Kat’s condo on the Upper East Side. He’d lost track of time with his second nightcap and Kat was such good company, with her stories about her travels and various adventures in the news business, he found he was no longer in a hurry to leave.

It didn’t hurt, either, that she seemed to find him equally fascinating. Gone were the days when Camille had hung on his every word. His wife didn’t even want him around, apparently. Hurt and resentment rose, hot and thick, in his throat. How could she have blindsided him like this? He had agreed to go along with her preposterous plan, admittedly more to humor her than anything, but still. Why couldn’t she, at least, have been honest about Kat?

“. . . and poor Daniel. I invited him because I thought it would cheer him up,” Kat was saying. Edward realized his mind had wandered and he brought his attention back to her. “He and his boyfriend, Keith, just broke up. Which is awkward, because Keith is also a friend of mine, so I couldn’t invite them both.” She reached for the wine bottle on the coffee table and offered it to Edward, who shook his head, before refilling her glass. “God. Don’t you hate when you have to choose?”

Edward murmured in sympathy.

Kat sighed and went on, “Story of my life: My closest friends are all gay. No wonder I’m still single.” She sat next to him on the sofa, her bare feet tucked under her as she sipped her wine.

“I find it hard to believe that’s the only reason you haven’t found a husband,” he replied gallantly. He wasn’t just trying to make her feel better, it also happened to be true: Kat was beautiful and accomplished, with much to offer.

“Finding one isn’t a problem. It’s finding the right one.”

“So, what is it you look for in a man?” he asked.

“For starters, someone who isn’t threatened by the fact that other men find me attractive,” she replied frankly. “I had this one boyfriend, in college, who was so jealous he once threw a punch at this other guy just for talking to me at a party.” She grimaced at the memory. “Though I’m not sure which is worse, that or the ones who like showing me off like I’m some prize they won.”