The Replacement Wife (45 page)

He was thinking of her.

“Have you two set a date?” she asked.

“We were thinking March, when the kids are on spring break. Do you and Edward have plans?”

“Not as of yet.” Until recently, making travel plans would have been out of the question. Cancún or Vermont might as well have been a trip to the moon. “What about Holly—would that work for her?”

“I haven’t discussed it with her yet. I wanted to talk it over with you first,” he said. Camille was surprised and touched. He’d shared his news with her before Holly—that was a first.

“Well,” she said. “I doubt she’s made any plans. She’ll have her hands full with the baby.”

“Speaking of which, I didn’t want to wait that long to meet my newest grandchild, so you’ll be seeing me before then. Lil and I are coming for a visit. It’ll give you girls a chance to get to know Lil, too.”

“Really? That’s, um . . . When are you coming?”

“Three weeks from today, to be exact. I timed it to coincide with Holly’s due date.” As if babies could be counted on to arrive on time.
Or I didn’t have enough to cope with,
Camille thought.

How, in the midst of working to rebuild her health, shore up her crumbling marriage, and prepare for the birth of Holly’s baby, was she supposed to deal with a visit from her dad and his bride-to-be? But she could see he was trying, so she rallied. “Great,” she said. “I look forward to it.”

How can I begrudge him?
she thought after she’d hung up. Life was short. Not long ago, she’d been facing certain death; today both feet were planted squarely in the land of the living. Each day was a gift, each moment a blessing. She needed to celebrate that, not scrutinize it for flaws.

“Mom?”

Camille looked up find Kyra standing in the doorway, still in her school uniform. She’d been fooling around with makeup—she had permission to experiment at home—and her eyes were smudged with eye shadow, her cheeks pink with blush; she looked at once years older than her age and like when she was a little girl playing dress-up. Camille no longer felt conflicted about her daughter’s growing up. She would be around for it; that was what mattered.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Was that Grandpa Larry on the phone?”

Camille nodded in response, and arranged her face in an expression suitable to the occasion. “Big news,” she said. “He’s getting married.”

Kyra’s mouth fell open. “No way.”

“Way.”

“But he’s, like,
old
.”

Camille smiled at her daughter’s assumption that love was strictly the province of the young. Kyra would’ve been horrified to learn what her parents had been up to earlier. “You’re never too old to fall in love. Anyway, I’m sure she’s nice. Your grandpa certainly seems to think so.”

“He wouldn’t marry someone he didn’t think was nice,” Kyra said. “The question is, will
we
like her?” There was a time it wouldn’t have mattered, back when Grandpa Larry was but a remote figure. But now that he was playing a more active role in their lives, Kyra had reason to be concerned.

Camille sighed. “We’ll know soon enough. They’re coming to visit in a few weeks.”

Kyra crossed the room, bringing with her the scent of some light, floral fragrance—whichever one they’d been giving away samples of at Sephora the last time she’d shopped there, no doubt—and sank down on the sofa next to Camille. “Mom, are you okay with this? It won’t be weird that she’s taking your mom’s place?” she asked in her Little Mommy voice. Camille had started calling her that—Little Mommy—during her first bout with cancer, when she’d been hospitalized and it had been Kyra making grocery lists, reminding Edward about school events and game times, and making sure her brother did his homework and that his teeth got brushed. Her heart swelled with love.
My sweet, sweet girl
.

“No one could ever take my mom’s place,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want Grandpa to be happy.”

Her daughter did something surprising then: She hugged her. Kyra was at an age when displays of affection—which for the most part had gone the way of footie pajamas, Flintstone vitamins, and bedtime stories—were seldom initiated and merely to be tolerated when she was on the receiving end, so Camille was more touched than she ordinarily would have been. Kyra, her head nestled against Camille’s shoulder, murmured, “No one could ever take your place, either, Mom.”

“Good,” Camille said, “because I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know. It’s just . . .” Kyra tilted her head to look up at Camille. “When your cancer came back and you said we shouldn’t worry, I was still worried. I was scared you were going to die.”

Camille felt a pang, hating that Kyra and Zach had had to grow up too soon and grapple with realities most young children never have to face. At the same time, she felt hugely relieved, knowing that particular worry wasn’t one that was likely, at this point, to become a reality. She would never again take her health for granted—there would always be the threat of her cancer recurring—but the Sword of Damocles no longer dangled over her head. “I know, sweetie,” she said. “But that’s all behind us now. I’m not going to die. Hopefully, not for a long time.” She hugged her daughter, breathing in the fragrance of the scent Kyra wore, and underneath it that of Pantene shampoo and the underarm deodorant Kyra religiously slathered on each morning in the sincere belief that she would otherwise clear out a classroom with her body odor. “For one thing, how could I ever leave you and Zach?”

“Dad, too,” Kyra prompted.

“Dad, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

O
h, the wealth of days! The abundance! For Camille, each new day was Christmas morning, each hour a present under the tree waiting to be unwrapped. She found deep satisfaction in the simplest of pleasures: sipping her morning coffee as she watched the sun come up, kibitzing with Dara at the start of each workday, or strolling the sidewalks taking in the sights and sounds of the city. Most of all, she reveled in time spent with her children: having them hang out with her in the kitchen while she got supper ready, taking them shopping or to a favorite eatery—Sarabeth’s or the Popover Café, the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park—helping them with their homework or playing games with them, which with Zach invariably entailed endless rounds of Wii golf. Even the drives to Southampton, which used to get tiresome when the kids squabbled or whined that they were hungry or had to go to the bathroom for the fiftieth time, no longer made her want to scream in frustration.

Things were more tenuous with Edward, but they were making progress. They went out on dates. He took her to romantic restaurants. They held hands in movie theaters. Once, he’d sent flowers, though it wasn’t a special occasion. (The card read, “Thinking of you.”) At a recent banquet at which Edward had been an honoree, when the wife of one of his fellow honorees commented that it was nice to see a long-married couple as devoted as Camille and Edward, Camille had smiled and nodded as if their love for each other had never been in question. She’d felt only pride that night, seeing her husband on the podium.
How distinguished he looks!
She had thought. All the more so for the lines on his face and feathering of gray at his temples. And yet . . .

Something was missing. She couldn’t put her finger on it but felt its absence as keenly as she would a missing tooth or limb. At times, it was as though the missing thing were within reach; at other times, as though it were forever lost.
Be patient,
she told herself. Fractures need time to heal. Especially those in marriages. Then she’d catch her husband, in an unguarded moment, looking melancholy and know he was thinking of
her
. Each time, it was like a knife in her heart.

We still love each other.
She repeated those words regularly like a mantra.

Her father and his fiancée arrived the first week in November on schedule, though the baby still hadn’t arrived—Holly was a week past her due date. Larry phoned as soon as they’d checked into their hotel. Camille had invited them for supper that evening, but she was eager to meet Lillian so she told them to come early. They showed up an hour later, Larry looking as dapper as ever and with a new twinkle in his eye, which no doubt had to do with the woman at his side.

She greeted her warmly after she’d kissed her dad on the cheek. “You must be Lillian. Hi, I’m Camille.” The first thing that struck her was how tall Lillian was—she stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Larry. Nor was she anything like the ladies whom Camille had met the one and only time she’d visited her dad at Heritage Acres—ladies who were perennially blond or brunette (with the odd henna-haired redhead mixed in) and who wore color-coordinated outfits in blended-drink shades, lots of chunky gold jewelry, and way too much makeup. Lillian’s hair wasn’t dyed, and she was dressed simply and tastefully in a silky tunic top and trousers the opalescent blue-green of mother-of-pearl. She wore no makeup, and her only jewelry was a hammered-silver cuff bracelet and matching choker, which complemented her sleek silver bob.

“My dear, I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to this.” Lillian clasped Camille’s hand in both of hers. Her blue eyes sparkled. “Your father’s told me so much about you, and I can see it wasn’t just boasting. You’re every bit as lovely as he described.”

Camille, unused to praise from her father, even secondhand praise, was quick to deflect it by changing the subject. “Dad tells me you have two daughters of your own.”

“Yes—Susie and CeeCee. You’ll meet them when you come for the wedding.”

“I can’t wait,” Camille said in a tone she hoped sounded heartfelt.

“Your children are coming, too, I hope?” Camille murmured in assent, and Lillian looked pleased. “Wonderful! CeeCee’s eldest, Caitlin, is the same age as your daughter, and Susie’s boy is only a year younger than your son, so they should get along just fine. Which will leave us ladies plenty of time for girl stuff.” She turned to Larry. “Not to exclude you, darling. But I’m sure you men can find something to occupy yourselves.”

The old Larry would have grabbed at any excuse to make himself scarce. The new Larry replied in a mock-injured tone, “If I must. I know when I’m not welcome.” He fell into step with Camille as they made their way into the living room. “How’s your sister holding up?” he asked.

“Fit to burst, in more ways than one,” Camille reported. “The way she carries on, you’d think Mother Nature was doing this just to spite her.” Her gaze drifted toward the framed photos on the mantel. One showed Holly, at age sixteen, dressed for the prom: in a vintage ball gown from the 1950s, with a full skirt and satin bodice, and pink Converse high-tops. She explained to Lillian, “My sister doesn’t do well in forced captivity. She’s . . . well, you’ll see when you meet her.”

Lillian took her time examining all the photos, remarking on what beautiful children Camille had and what a lovely couple she and Edward made.
Aren’t we lucky ladies to have such handsome men!
She took notice, too, of the painting over the fireplace, a still life of a bowl of artichokes, that Camille and Edward had purchased years ago at a gallery in SoHo, their first piece of original art, one that marked the transition from penny-pinching to being able to afford nice things.

“Lillian’s an artist.” Larry said proudly.

“Now, Larry,” Lillian admonished, “I thought we agreed, no commercials.” She turned to Camille with a self-effacing smile. “I would hardly call myself an artist. I only paint as a hobby.”

“She’s being modest,” Larry said. “Her paintings are on display at the senior center. She’s even sold a few.”

Lillian smiled and shook her head. “Two, to be exact, not counting the one your father bought,” she told Camille. “But enough about me. I want to hear all about
you,
my dear. I was intrigued when your father told me what you did for a living. I’m hoping you’ll share some of your trade secrets. I myself haven’t had much luck playing Cupid, though it’s not for want of trying.”

In the light that streamed in the window, Camille could see Lillian hadn’t had any face work. Not that she needed it. She had good bones, and the lines on her face were like tiny cracks on a glazed porcelain vase, making it more interesting than if it had been perfectly smooth. Even the soft folds around her eyes were complimentary than unkind. More than anyone Camille had ever met, she embodied the term “growing old gracefully.”

“It’s not as easy as it looks,” Camille said. “Even when you do it for a living, you can sometimes miss the mark.” She thought of her two most recent misfires, Kat Fisher and Stephen Resler, and wondered if either of them had taken her advice about seeing a therapist. A few weeks ago, she’d gotten a brief, chatty email from Kat that made no mention of whether or not she was, and Camille hadn’t heard from Stephen since they’d last spoken. She could only hope they would sort themselves out, one way or another. “But you and Dad are proof that not everyone needs help. Sometimes you just get lucky.”

Lillian hooked an arm through Larry’s. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Your father is a very persistent man.”

Persistent? The man whose own daughter had to be at death’s door for him to pay attention? Camille nearly laughed out loud. Instead, she smiled and said, “Well, on that note, I think a toast is in order. Why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable while I get the champagne?”

She wasn’t just being a good hostess. It was a lot to take in . . . meeting Lillian . . . getting to know this other side of her dad. She needed a moment alone to process it. But when Lillian excused herself to wash up, Larry followed Camille into the kitchen. He was eager to know what she thought of Lillian. He wouldn’t ask—it wasn’t his style—but she could tell he was nervous.

She put his anxieties to rest. “She’s lovely, Dad. You did good.”

He looked relieved.

Camille reached for the champagne flutes, on a high shelf in the cupboard above the dishwasher. She noticed as she brought them down that they were filmed in dust—they hadn’t seen much use lately. What had there been to celebrate until recently? Camille turned on the tap, filling the sink with hot water and squirting in some soap. She washed while her father dried.