The Replacement Wife (52 page)

“I’m sorry.” Angie came right out with it. “What I did was wrong, and you have every reason to hate me.” Camille, standing beside her gazing out at the river, gave no indication that she’d heard. She only pulled her sheepskin coat more tightly around her.

Finally, Camille turned to face her. “That’s it? You’re sorry?” Her hair, whipped by the wind, was the only part of her that wasn’t perfectly still. Her face might have been carved of ice. “Well, it’s too late for that. The damage is done.”

Angie nodded, her teeth chattering with the cold. “For what it’s worth, it was never about me. Not really. If you hadn’t gotten sick—” At the sharp look Camille gave her, she explained, “He told me. It was tearing him apart. At first, I . . . I was just someone he could talk to. And what he mainly talked about was
you
. How much he loved you, and how he didn’t want to lose you.”

Camille stared at her, wearing a queer, bitten-off smile. “How touching.”

Angie flinched at the sarcasm in her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Your apology is duly noted. If that’s all, you can go now.” Camille spoke in a clipped, businesslike voice, though Angie knew it was only because she was struggling to keep from losing control. The heat of emotion had melted her icy facade, revealing the underlying anguish. Angie could see, too, the glow of vitality she’d noticed earlier. Camille might not be too happy at the moment, but she no longer had one foot in the grave. And if that was the case, she had the strength to fight to save her marriage.
It may be too late for me, but it’s not too late for you,
Angie thought.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t come to disrupt your party,” Angie told her. “I’m also not here just to ease my conscience. There’s something you need to know.” She reached to grip the railing, to anchor herself, the ice-cold iron biting into her palm. “I’m sure Edward’s told you, but I wanted you to hear it from me: It’s over between us.”

“What makes you think I doubted that?”

“I heard you were getting a divorce.”

Camille gave a harsh laugh. “Is that what you heard?”

“Is it true?” Angie hoped she didn’t sound eager.

“Not exactly—we’re separated. Not that it’s any of your business.”

So they weren’t getting a divorce. Not yet, at least. Angie felt a flicker of hope, but was quick to remind herself this had nothing whatsoever to do with her. “You’re right. It’s none of my business,” she said. “But if you think he might still have feelings for me, I wouldn’t want that to be a factor. You should know it wasn’t my decision to end it. I wouldn’t have been able to, even though I knew it was the right thing to do. I loved him too much.”
I still do
. Angie knew she was only making herself look worse, but she was here to make things right, not portray herself in the most flattering light.

Camille tilted her head, regarding Angie with a curious expression. Her blue eyes shone in the light that spilled across the terrace from the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I thought you didn’t believe in love.”

I didn’t. Until I met your husband
. Angie drew in a breath that felt sharp, like inhaling broken glass. “The point is,” she said, “it’s
you
he loves. He was willing to let me go, but not you.”

Camille’s mouth curved in smile that held no humor. “And yet look where we ended up.”

Angie didn’t respond. She hunched her shoulders, shivering. Camille went back to gazing out at the river—she seemed more sad now than angry. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost as if she were talking to herself. “You know the saying
When one door closes, another one opens
? Well, sometimes the reverse is true: One door opens, and another one closes.”

Angie didn’t know what to make of it. Was Camille saying there was no hope for her marriage? Or was she only voicing her hurt at having been betrayed? Either way, it was no business of Angie’s. She was part of Edward’s past, not his future.
Whether he stays or goes, he’s moved on as far as I’m concerned.
“If it means anything,” she said. “I hope you can work it out.” The most damnable part of all this was that she still loved him enough to want him to be happy. If his happiness lay with Camille, so be it.

Camille shrugged in response. The silence stretched out, becoming increasingly awkward, prickling like the chill air needling its way through Angie’s raincoat. Angie cleared her throat and said, “Well, I should go. Good luck with everything. I mean that.” She reached to touch Camille’s sleeve, but some instinct made her stop short, and her fingertips met only with cold air. Camille didn’t appear to notice. She remained motionless staring into the distance, lost in thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“W
hat I’d like to know is how a man with twenty years on me and twice as many pounds still manages to slaughter me on a regular basis,” Edward groused good-naturedly as he and Hugh made their way off the squash court. He’d just been soundly beaten, by a six-point margin, the third week in a row.

Hugh flashed him a grin. “Bionic knees.” He referred to the double knee replacement he’d had several years ago.

“Seriously, what’s your secret?”

“The key is balance, my friend. On and off the court.”

“Is that just another way of saying I don’t have my mojo on?”

Hugh paused to look at him. “You tell me.”

Edward only shrugged in response and kept moving. He didn’t want to get into a heavy discussion right now. It seemed all he did these days was talk. With Camille, and once a week with the marriage counselor they’d been seeing the past month and a half. Not that anything had come of it, as far as he could tell. He and Camille were making progress, according to Dr. Santangelo, and while Edward didn’t dispute that—his view was entirely subjective, so what did he know?—it seemed all they ever did was go over the same tired ground while grappling with the question at the heart of it:
How could two people who love each other have let this happen?

He and Hugh showered and got dressed; then they headed out. It was lunchtime, and neither was due back at work for another half-hour. They stopped at Eretz, the neighborhood kosher deli and a favorite of Hugh’s, for a bite to eat. Hugh ordered his usual, tongue and corned beef on rye and a celery tonic; Edward, a hamburger and fries, plus seltzer water with a slice of lemon.

“You finished unpacking yet?” asked Hugh as he was tucking into his sandwich.

“You mean all three boxes?” Edward gave a dry laugh. Over the weekend, he’d moved from his furnished sublet on Amsterdam at Eighty-Fourth Street to another one, closer to work. “That would include the Crock-Pot my receptionist gave me, which is still in its original carton.” He paused to consider this, taking a sip of his seltzer water. “I think Rosie feels sorry for me.”

“Why wouldn’t she? Look at you—you’re a mess. Can’t even beat an old man at squash.” Hugh took a bite of his sandwich, chewing with satisfaction. His face was ruddy, and his towel-dried hair stuck out in gray corkscrews all over his head. “So, how do you like the new digs?”

“Can’t beat the commute.” It was only a ten-minute walk to work. It was also a short walk from the subway station, which was convenient for when his children came to visit. Other than that, it was all the same to Edward. He’d simply slid from one featureless capsule into the next.

“Knowing you, that just means longer hours at work,” Hugh guessed correctly.

Edward shrugged. “It’s not like I have anyone waiting for me at home.”

Hugh sighed in commiseration. “It’s not easy, I know.”

“No offense, but how the hell would you know?” Edward regarded his long-married friend with a wry gaze.

“Ruth left me once. I never told you that story? It was right after Sarah was born. She was feeling overwhelmed and I guess I wasn’t being very supportive, so she went with the kids to stay with her folks in Toledo. She didn’t threaten to make it permanent, but I knew it was a wakeup call.”

“What did you do?”

“At first, all I did was mope; my pride kept me from begging her to come back. Longest two months of my life,” Hugh said, shaking his gray, clock-sprung head. “Finally, I couldn’t stand it, so I got in the car and drove straight through to Toledo. Just showed up at my in-laws and announced, ‘I’m here for Ruthie and the kids.’ Ruth didn’t say a word. She just packed up, got the kids, and we drove home. On the way, I did most of the talking. I told her I was an ass, that she’d had every reason to leave me, and that I’d missed her and was lost without her. I said if she ever decided to leave again, she had to promise one thing.”

“What was that?”

“To take me with her.”

Edward felt a tightening in his gut. Hugh made it sound easy—as easy as swallowing one’s pride.
If only it were that simple
. “She knew she had you by the short hairs,” he said with a laugh.

Hugh took another bite of his monster sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, then washing it down with celery tonic. “How about you? You and Camille making any progress?” he asked. His tone was casual, but Edward knew that, with Hugh, even the most casual inquiry was a spring-loaded mechanism, one that could catapult him into a discussion he’d just as soon not have.

Edward dragged a french fry through the pool of ketchup on his plate, and popped it into his mouth. “Your friend Dr. Santangelo is probably more qualified to comment on that than I am,” he replied cautiously. The therapist he and Camille were seeing had been recommended to them by Hugh. Edward liked and respected Dr. Santangelo. Though he would like her a whole lot more, he decided, if their sessions didn’t invariably end with him feeling like he’d been run over by a nine-wheeler. “It seems all we do is go in circles.”

“Be patient.” Hugh dabbed with his napkin at a smear of mustard that had made its way onto his tie. Hugh attracted food particles and drips the way a magnet did metal filings. “Even when it seems as if you’re not making progress, these things have a way of resolving themselves.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“What, a resolution?”

“Yes, if it’s the wrong one.” Edward stared at the burger on his plate, which had grown cold.

“There’s no right or wrong in these situations, only what’s right for you,” Hugh said. He paused before going on, in a gentle tone, “I know you haven’t reached that point yet, and God willing you never will, but you should, at least, prepare yourself for the possibility that this could end with the two of you going your separate ways.”

Edward shook his head in denial. He was getting the same, sick feeling he got with Dr. Santangelo—the gripping sensation in his gut; the sense of despair like rising floodwaters. “Twenty years is a long time,” he said. “We have a lot invested. We have the kids to think of, too.”

Hugh sighed again, his brow creased into meaty furrows. “It’s not about what you have invested; it’s about what you hope to gain. As for the children . . .” He paused, the furrows in his brow deepening. He was like an uncle to Kyra and Zach, so he, too, wanted what was best for them, Edward knew. Still, he didn’t mince words. “If you and Camille decide to make a go of it, it should be for one reason only: because you love each other. Couples who stay together because of the kids aren’t fooling anyone, believe me. Kids always know.”

Edward pushed his plate aside. He’d lost his appetite. His stomach felt like a piece of aluminum foil balled up and jammed into a crevice of his rib cage. “That’s where we keep getting hung up. I love her and I know she loves me, but . . .” He searched for the right words. “It’s like when something breaks; you can glue it back together, but it’ll never be whole again. That’s how it feels with her. Like we can never be whole again. A lot of what we have is good, and maybe that’s enough, but if the center doesn’t hold . . .” He gave a helpless shrug.

“Yeats was commenting on religion, not marriage,” Hugh pointed out.

“Yes, but aren’t they the same in some respects? Isn’t marriage meant to be sacred?” A corner of Edward’s mouth hooked up in an ironic smile. “I know that must sound pretty hypocritical coming from me. But if I was unfaithful, it was only because I felt like Camille had given up on
us,
not just on getting better. That whole business with Elise . . .” He felt himself start to grow angry all over again. “Did you know she wasn’t the only one? There was another woman before her. Camille set us up on a date that I didn’t even know was a date.” He gave a hollow laugh at the surprised look Hugh wore. “She came on to me. Not what Camille intended, I’m sure. And not that I took her up on the offer. But I sometimes wonder if that wasn’t when everything changed for me. That night. When I realized my wife had stopped thinking of me as her husband. I was just another . . . project,” he added bitterly.

“I’m sure she didn’t see it that way.” Hugh played devil’s advocate.

“No. But that’s my point. She was looking to the future; she couldn’t see what was in front of her. She didn’t see that I loved her, and that I’d have sacrificed anything for her, which I did—even my own integrity.”

“Perhaps she didn’t feel she had a choice.”

“We
always
have a choice, if only in choosing how to play out the endgame.” Edward spoke more forcefully than he’d intended, and a diner at the next table, a middle-aged man wearing a yarmulke, glanced his way. He lowered his voice. “Look, I’m not saying we can’t get past this. It’s just . . . it’s not easy.”

Hugh nodded in understanding. “And your lady friend? Is she still in the picture?”

Edward felt his heart constrict at the mention of Angie. He’d worked as hard at keeping thoughts of her at bay as he had on keeping his marriage intact. Harder in some ways—because despite his best efforts, those thoughts constantly stole in, like wind through unsealed cracks in a window frame. “I’m not seeing her anymore, if that’s what you mean,” he replied gruffly.

“But you’d like to.” It was a statement, not a question.

Edward shrugged again.

Hugh wiped his mouth with his napkin and sat back, brushing idly at the crumbs scattered over his shirtfront. “Want my advice?”