The Replacement Wife (51 page)

And she wasn’t blameless herself. She should have known better than to become entangled with a married man. Instead, she’d gone down that slippery slope like it was a waterslide at an amusement park, convincing herself theirs wasn’t just another garden variety affair. Camille was dying and wanted her husband to find happiness again after she was gone.
Why couldn’t I be the one to make him happy?
Angie had thought. Wasn’t she already making him happy? Now the ugly truth was plain to see:
He was only using me
. How else to explain his indifference (
not so much as a fucking email!
)? He’d used her as a crutch during a difficult period in his life, and now that he no longer needed that crutch, she’d been discarded. Angie felt duped. Crushed. Her heart smashed to bits like a piece of crockery dropped onto a tile floor.

She was yanked from her thoughts when two-year-old Caty sent a shovelful of sand flying her way. Angie brushed off the front of her jacket and looked down at Caty, clutching her red plastic shovel and chortling with glee. Angie grinned at her niece. “Nice shot, you little hooligan.” Caty was Francine’s “oops” baby, and Francine liked to joke that she’d been playing tricks on them ever since. Her favorite trick, since she’d learned to walk, was toddling around the living room as fast as her little legs could carry her, pulling books and knickknacks off shelves. Though whenever something broke, Francine would just shrug and say it was one less thing to dust.

Angie let herself in through the slider to the den, where she found Julia and Susanne blowing up balloons. They waved hello. Susanne’s youngest, Pete, had turned eight earlier in the week and Julia’s Daisy had turned five the week before—the reason for today’s joint celebration—and after lunch there would be cake and ice cream and games for the kids, including a balloon dart-throw. Angie’s dad, Lou, and Julia’s and Susanne’s husbands, Dan and Tony, were watching the football game, the Giants against the Oakland Raiders, on Big Nick’s brand-new 48-inch flat-screen TV. None of the men looked up. Physically, they bore no resemblance to one another—Lou, stout and balding; Dan, big, red-haired, and freckled, with the ruddy face of an Irishman who liked his pint; Tony, slight and dark, with the look of a 1950s crooner—but they all wore identical expressions, those of rabid sports fans hanging on every play. The Giants were down two points. The house could be on fire, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

“Pucker up, Ange.” Susanne motioned toward the bag of balloons. Her face was flushed and her dark-brown curls looked, as usual, as if she’d blow-dried them without benefit of a brush. She didn’t look much different than she had as a teenager coming home from soccer practice, except she was a bit heavier, with strands of gray here and there amid the curls. In contrast, Julia looked impossibly slender and chic wearing size-two bisque-colored jeans, a rust-colored knit shell, and a pumpkin jacket, her buttered-blond tresses messy only because they were styled to look that way. She was still the same weight as in high school (which bugged Rosemary, Susanne, and Francine, all of whom had packed on pounds with their pregnancies, no end). It was easy to see why Julia had gotten signed by a modeling agency at age seventeen, and also why she’d lasted all of three minutes on the open market after her divorce.

“Sorry, guys, you’re on your own. I’m wanted in the kitchen,” Angie said as she crossed over into the hallway.

Julia winked at her as she passed by. “You saving your kisser for someone, Ange?”

Angie smiled and thought,
Yeah, the man in the moon
. The last guy to lay one on her was the eighty-year-old grandfather of the boy whose bar mitzvah she’d catered the previous weekend. That was the extent of her love life right now. And that was fine by her. She’d seen what love could do.

The tinkling of piano keys drifted down the hallway. Angie popped her head into the living room as she approached the kitchen. Rosemary, in a loose-fitting tunic and drawstring pants, her long reddish-brown hair in a bun skewered with chopsticks, sat on the piano bench next to her seven-year-old, Margaret. Margaret, musically gifted like Rosemary, with the same serious face and composed air, was playing a piece Angie recognized as one her sister used to play when she was that age—a Bach two-part invention. She waited until Margaret was finished, then clapped and called, “Way to go, Megs! You’ll be playing Carnegie Hall before you know it.”

Entering the kitchen, Angie expected to see her mother going at her usual eighty-mile-per-hour pace, washing dishes or wiping down counters, slapping out hamburger patties or peeling hard-boiled eggs for the deviled eggs. Instead, she found her gazing out the window at the older boys playing Frisbee on the front lawn. Francine’s ranch-style house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, so Francine and Big Nick didn’t worry about the boys playing unsupervised on the lawn or riding their bikes on the street, where the speed limit of ten miles per hour was enforced by speed bumps. (The only vehicular accident to have occurred on Shadybrook Lane in recent memory was when old Mrs. Blankenship next door knocked over one of Francine’s trash cans, on the curb out front, while backing her Pontiac Cutlass out of her driveway.)

“The boys behaving themselves?” Angie asked.

“I’m glad they still know how to entertain themselves.” Loretta turned to smile at her. “Kids these days, all they know is computers and video games. Not like it was with you and your sisters.”

“Yeah, all we had to corrupt our minds was TV. That and drugs, sex, and rock and roll.”

Loretta gave her a chastising look that was halfhearted at best—she might be stuck in the past, but she was not without a sense of humor. “You and that mouth of yours—one day it’ll get you in trouble.” She’d been to the beauty parlor, and her hair was shellacked into its signature upsweep. She wore the embroidered bolero jacket she’d picked up on the previous year’s Mexican Riviera cruise, with a full-sleeve shirt and pleated trousers. She looked like a circus ringmaster.

“Face it, Ma. I’m a lost cause. You should know that by now.”

“I know no such thing.”

“Even though I’m the black sheep of the family?”

“Who said you were the black sheep?”

“You did. Not in so many words, but you didn’t have to—I got the message loud and clear.”

“Well, I’m sorry if you felt I was criticizing you. I was only—”

“Jesus Christ, Ma. Don’t you know when to quit?” Angie cried in frustration. At the reproachful look her mother gave her, she went on in a lighter tone, “See what I mean? I’m incorrigible. Remember when you used to threaten to give me to the nuns to be straightened out? Maybe you should have.” Angie was only half joking. “That’s what you get for going easy on me. A daughter with a mouth, who doesn’t listen.”
And who you would be ashamed of if you knew what she’d been up to lately.

“You’re a good girl.” Loretta smiled and patted her cheek.

Angie wished she could believe it. But good girls didn’t get involved with married men. A man, in her case, who hadn’t really loved her, as it turned out; who couldn’t even be bothered to inform her that he’d left his wife. No, she wasn’t good. She was rotten. A rotten, horrible person.

She gestured toward the items spread over the counter—jars of condiments, a colander of boiled potatoes, blue cheese crumbles, and bunches of scallions and celery, all the makings for her mother’s God-bless-the-Pope potato salad. (Angie and her sisters had dubbed it that due to the liberal amount of Miracle Whip that went into it.) “Need a hand with that?” Her mom gave her the celery to chop, and then dumped the potatoes into a bowl. She was reaching for the jar of Miracle Whip when Angie said, “You know, Ma, it wouldn’t take me two minutes to whip up some mayonnaise.”

“Yes, but then it wouldn’t taste the same,” Loretta said, meaning the salad.

Angie almost said something but thought better of it. Better to choke down a few bites of her mom’s potato salad than hurt her feelings. Besides, she had bigger problems. She needed to get out of the slump she was in. She had to stop obsessing about Edward. She loved him, and she hated him. She wanted to spit in his eye and to smother him in kisses. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and to be a stone figure, unmoved and unmovable. She wanted . . . she wanted . . . she wanted. She was as stuck, in her own way, as her mom with her potato salad and her turquoise eye shadow and fifty zillion pictures of icebergs. And maybe this was what she deserved—to suffer. She’d stolen another woman’s husband (borrowed more like it, but still). She’d sinned. She was a sinner. And the worst of it was, she would do it all over again if given the chance.

She had to find her way back to the person she used to be. Her
own
person. Someone who didn’t want for anything or anyone; who lived her life the way she fried eggs: neat and clean, and with nothing sticking to the pan. But
how
? How could she get back there when she’d strayed so far?

Make it right
.

It was her mother’s voice she heard, if the words were only in her mind. Yes, that was exactly what Loretta would say. The same as when Angie had stolen a pack of gum from Willoughby’s Pharmacy when she was seven (old enough to know better but still young enough to do dumbass things without weighing the consequences) and Loretta had marched her back to the store to apologize to Mr. Willoughby and pay for the gum, after finding it in Angie’s pocket. Angie would never forget the humiliation. How she’d stood staring down at her feet while she mumbled the words, the blush she wore burning holes in her cheeks, the floor an ocean swimming before her tear-filled eyes, one she wished she could dive into. But afterward, it was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.

Now, standing in her sister’s sunny kitchen chopping celery, it came to her: She had to make this right, and the only way she could do that was by making amends. She had to tell Camille she was sorry.

FRIDAY OF THE
following week was the evening of the December Harte to Heart meet-and-greet. As Angie stepped through the door to the familiar West Chelsea loft, she was instantly on home turf amid the swirl of partygoers, the buzz of conversations punctuated by bright bursts of laughter, the air filled with the mingled scents of perfume, hot appetizers, and poured wine. At the same time, it felt strange. In the past, she’d always showed up, with her staff, hours before the party started. This was also the first time she’d arrived empty-handed. Normally, she’d have been carrying a stack of plastic tubs or aluminum containers, a bulging canvas bag slung over each shoulder. And yet she had never felt more weighted down than she did now. If this were a pond, she’d have sunl like a rock to the bottom. Camille wasn’t expecting her and wouldn’t be happy to see her. In fact, Angie was probably the last person Camille would want to see.

But Angie had no other choice. She needed to speak with Camille, and Camille wasn’t returning her phone calls or emails. She’d hoped to arrange a private meeting, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen. And this had to be done face-to-face. No being half-assed about it; she needed to look Camille in the eye when she told her what she’d come to say. She had to do this right.

As she made her way through the crush in search of Camille, her stomach was in knots and her nerves were like a hot-wired engine being gunned. Was she doing more harm than good in coming here? She was the cavalry carrying the smallpox-infested blankets to the unsuspecting Indians. She’d be infecting Camille with her mere presence. She calmed her nerves by repeating to herself:
I can’t make it better, but maybe I can keep it from getting worse.
She owed it to Camille to try, at least.

She spotted familiar faces amid the crowd, but though a few people glanced at her curiously, no one appeared to recognize her; either that, or they couldn’t place her. She was out of context. Instead of her chef whites, she was wearing a dress, her all-purpose black one. Even so, she felt conspicuous. She felt like a bank robber wearing a Halloween mask.
Everyone freeze, and no one will get hurt!

Finally, she spied Camille, standing by the bar chatting with one of the guests, a curvy brunette wearing a print wrap-dress. Something was different about her. But what? Her hair was the same, a deep auburn that fell in soft curls about her porcelain face, and she wasn’t made up any differently. Had she put on weight? A few pounds maybe—she didn’t look quite so gaunt—but not enough to explain the marked change. Then Angie realized what it was: Camille looked healthy. Like someone in the land of the living.

Camille caught her gaze then, and the animated look she wore instantly fell away. She murmured something to the brunette in the wrap-dress, and began making her way toward Angie. She looked ready to do battle: shoulders squared, eyes glittering, a smile that was locked and loaded. As if Angie were a party crasher whom she planned to eject—politely but firmly. Camille wouldn’t make a scene, but she would make damn sure Angie got the message.
You’re not welcome here
. Angie fought the urge to bolt for the nearest exit; she had to see this through. So she propelled herself forward, meeting Camille halfway.

“What are you doing here?” Camille kept her voice low, but there was steel in it.

“I need to speak with you. Please. It’s important,” Angie said.

Camille studied her, as if trying to decide whether it was worth risking a scene, then gave a stiff nod. “All right. But not here. Outside.” With her jaw clenched, her lips barely moved as she spoke.

She went to fetch her coat while Angie put on the raincoat folded over her arm, and led the way onto the terrace. In warm-weather months, the terrace, which wrapped around the top floor of the building, with views of Lower Manhattan to the south and the Hudson River to the west, was usually thronged with partygoers. Tonight, however, there wasn’t another soul in sight. After the unseasonal warm spell of the past week, temperatures had plummeted; even the smokers were apparently forgoing their nicotine fix in favor of staying inside where it was warm. Angie’s raincoat was no match for the cold wind gusting off the river. She’d have liked to sit down, in a sheltered spot, but Camille bypassed the groupings of tables and chairs, walking over to the railing on the side of the terrace that faced the river. Angie followed. It was a clear night, and she could see the dark water glittering below, where a barge cruised slowly by, the lights of New Jersey visible on the opposite shore. She hugged herself, shivering.