The Replacement Wife (60 page)

She flashed a grin at her posse, all sitting in the same row and all behaving themselves for a change, as she passed by. They were nearly unrecognizable in their Sunday best, especially Daarel in his suit and tie, meekly holding hands with Tamika, who had taken him back after he promised (in writing) to finish out the school year. Seated in front of them were Pat and Cleo and Stylianos, along with members of the hardcore gonzo crew from Angie’s restaurant days, warriors all, wearing their scars the way they did their tattoos, as proud emblems of their profession.

My ragtag family and my real one,
she thought. A year ago, who’d have thought they’d all be together under one roof someday? But that was the best thing about all this, that it was so unpredictable. Starting with Edward himself. Whenever Angie used to imagine the man she might marry one day, if she ever got around to marrying, she pictured him as being like the guys she’d dated in the past—someone who cursed a blue streak (as all denizens of restaurant kitchens did) and who was probably covered in tattoos, with pierced ears and not a single tie to his name. Instead, she’d ended up with a man who, in addition to being smart, gorgeous, and sexy, was eminently presentable and had a whole closetful of ties—in short, her mom’s dream son-in-law. Though Edward had a wild side, too (which Angie planned on exploring further when they were on their honeymoon in Positano), even if it didn’t involve excess facial hair, body piercings, or tattoos.

Looking at him now, she saw a study in contrasts. Someone who was kind and loyal but who could also be stubborn and intractable; who was his own man but also your typical man from Mars; who was always there for her but who had a tendency to hold back when showing his own emotions; who was forgetful at times but who never forgot what was most important. In short, someone who wasn’t perfect but who was perfect for her,
because
of rather than in spite of his flaws.

She murmured to her father, who had a death grip on her arm, “It’s okay, Dad. You can let go now.” He darted her a sheepish look—the man who swore he didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body and who’d walk out of the room rather than sit through a chick flick—before releasing her.

At last, she stood before Edward at the altar. He gently, reverently almost, lifted the veil from her face. He stared at her so long, she finally leaned in to whisper, “Don’t forget to breathe.”

“You look beautiful,” he whispered back.

“So do you.”

Reverend Caswell cleared his throat, a noise that, amplified by the mike clipped to his vestments, sounded like a train rumbling down the tracks. He spoke about the sanctity of marriage and of the blessedness of the union these two people were entering into. Then it was time for the vows. A hush fell over the church; it was so quiet you could’ve heard a pin drop as far away as Coney Island. Angie felt everyone’s eyes on them, but she had eyes only for Edward. Listening to him repeat the vows in his strong, sure voice, she felt something settle in her.

I’m home,
she thought.

EPILOGUE

One Year Later

C
amille hadn’t known what to expect when Kat Fisher called to invite her to lunch. It had been over a year since she’d last heard from her, not since she’d urged her to seek counseling. She wondered if Kat was ready to start dating again, if that was why she wanted to see her.

In the months since Camille herself had joined the ranks of singles, a lot had happened. Edward had remarried, and now he and Angie were expecting a baby, due in February. When Camille had first found out about the baby, the news had hit her hard, but she’d since come to accept and even embrace it to some degree. How could a new life be a bad thing, especially after what she’d been through? She had looked death in the face, and out of that experience had come the ability to appreciate life to its fullest, even the not-so-good things with silver linings so thin they weren’t visible to the naked eye. A baby would be terra firma after the seismic shifts of the past year and a half, a little brother or sister to make Kyra and Zach feel more connected to their father’s new wife. Edward had moved on, and the children needed to stop wishing for their parents to get back together.

Camille had moved on, too, though it was a slow process that often felt like a case of two steps forward and one step back. Sometimes it seemed as though she and Edward had been apart for years, and at other times as though he was merely away on a business trip. At the grocery store, she sometimes found herself absentmindedly reaching for the brand of mustard he preferred or the kosher dills she knew he liked; or when doing the laundry, she’d check for any men’s socks that might be clinging to the inside of the hamper. Whenever she came across something of his—a stray cuff link; a book he’d forgotten to take with him; a knit cap belonging to him, in among the ski things; an old prescription vial in the medicine cabinet—she was pierced by a sorrow so keen, it was palpable. It seemed inconceivable that all she had to show for twenty years were these scattered reminders, like shells left on the beach by the outgoing tide. How had it come to this? She prided herself on being able to read other people. How could she have missed the cues with her own husband?

But if she had suffered a loss, she had gained something even more precious in exchange: She had her life back. Two months ago, Camille had been declared cancer-free. Her father and Lillian were among the first with whom she shared the news, after she’d told the children, and they were both overjoyed. Larry had sent her his old pilot wings, with a note that read “the sky’s the limit,” and Lillian a watercolor she’d painted, done from a photo taken the previous summer when they’d visited Camille and the children in Southampton, of Camille standing on the beach at water’s edge, that spoke for itself. When Camille told Holly, her sister burst into tears and then, embarrassed, said jokingly, “Damn. And I was really counting on those pearls.” The Barbara Bush pearls, as Holly called them, were ones Camille had threatened to leave to her sister in her will. It seemed fitting, then, six weeks later when Holly walked down the aisle on her wedding day, that she was wearing those pearls—the something borrowed.

Camille counted her blessings. She was healthy, her children were thriving, her loved ones settled and happy, and business was better than ever. Dara had created a niche market among the twentysomething set, those still young enough to surf the club scene but old enough to be thinking about settling down. She herself had signed eight new clients since Labor Day (the start of her busy season), one of whom had already become engaged after a whirlwind romance—a gentle, soft-spoken orthopedic surgeon, with the unlikely name of Lance Fontaine, who’d lost his wife to cancer three years prior. He had found his match in a 9/11 widow named Kate Barlow who had children around the same ages as his. It was love at first sight by both accounts. They were to be married in December. Kate’s eldest son, Charles, would act as best man.

Camille arrived at the restaurant, Asiate, on the thirty-fifth floor of the Mandarin Oriental, to find Kat seated at one of the tables by the bank of tall windows that looked out on Central Park. She looked as gorgeous as ever—a queen surveying her domain, poised against the scenic backdrop of trees and miniature horse-drawn carriages below—wearing a gold jacket that brought out the natural bronze of her complexion, and jade drop earrings the smoky-green of her eyes.

When she spied Camille, she broke into a grin and rose to greet her, kissing her on the cheek. She smelled of some citrusy fragrance, and there was a glow to her that hadn’t come out of a bottle or jar, and that wasn’t the product of her impeccable grooming. Camille took her by the shoulders, holding her at arm’s length and declaring, “Look at you—If I had to guess, I’d say you were in love.”

Kat gave an airy laugh. “Spoken like a matchmaker.”

Their waiter appeared, one of those too-handsome-to-be-a-civilian types whom Camille immediately pegged as an actor. Definitely not gay; he was so transfixed by Kat, it was clearly an effort when he tore himself away to fill their drink orders—Campari and soda for Kat, the usual Perrier with lime for Camille. Camille was used to seeing grown men become bumbling adolescents around Kat; what was different this time was that Kat scarcely paid him any notice, whereas in the past she’d always flirted outrageously with men who made eyes at her, to feed her ego.

“So, am I right?” Camille asked.

“About what?” Kat played coy.

“Are you in love?”

“Not so fast. We’ll get to that in a minute.” Kat smiled mysteriously. “First, I want to know what
you’ve
been up to. There’s a rumor going around that you got divorced.” Her smile fell away, and her eyes searched Camille’s face.

Camille felt a familiar heaviness settle over her. Unlike with her illness, which she’d managed to keep private, news of her divorce had traveled far and wide. She’d fielded sympathies from everyone from clients to the receptionist at her dentist’s office. She was the wronged wife, in their eyes. Her husband had left her for another woman. She’d grown weary of trying to explain it wasn’t as it appeared—the divorce had been a mutual decision. Most people didn’t want the truth. They wanted the stuff of tabloids; they saw things in black-and-white, not shades of gray.

“I’m afraid it’s true.” Camille adopted the tone she’d perfected these past months in responding to such inquiries: appropriately solemn but not to the point where the other person would feel the need to hide any sharp objects that might be on hand.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Kat seemed truly saddened by the news. “Honestly? If I’d had to choose one couple who I would have said was rock solid, it was you two. And believe me, I’m not just saying that.” Camille wondered if there was something Kat
wasn’t
saying—something that might have happened at the ill-fated dinner party, from which Edward had returned in a foul mood and which, looking back, seemed to mark the turning point in their marriage, when he’d broken from her and retreated into himself—but she decided it would be best not to ask. What difference did it make at this late date?

“Nothing is unbreakable, even rocks,” she said, careful to keep her voice light. The pain had lessened with time, yes, but it was always there, its edge dulled but still capable of drawing blood. “It seems I’m better at orchestrating other people’s lives than I am at conducting my own. Speaking of which . . .” She changed the subject before all this talk of divorce succeeded in thoroughly depressing them both. “I’m dying to know. Did you take my advice?”

Kat sipped her drink, which had arrived in the blink of an eye, their waiter giving new meaning to service-with-a-smile. “About Dr. McDermott? Oh, yeah,” she said in the tone of someone who’d done more than make a phone call. “I’ve been seeing him for the past ten months.”

“It must be working, because I’ve never seen you look happier.”

Kat gave a wry laugh. “It’s been a real eye-opener, that’s for sure. You were right about him, by the way—he’s great. He got me to see it wasn’t the men who were the problem, it was
me
. I was so screwed up, I didn’t know what I wanted. It was tough having to look at that, and that was the easy part. The hardest part was figuring out
why,
and the only way I could get through it was by treating it as I would a news story. Reporters dig until they get all the facts, so that’s what I did: I dug and dug until I got to the bottom.”

“And what did you find?” Camille asked.

Kat gazed thoughtfully out the window. “A lot of it had to do with my parents’ divorce. I didn’t see much of my dad after that. Then when he remarried, I saw even less of him.” She brought her gaze back to Camille, and Camille could see the ghostly remains of that old pain on her face. “With all those men, I think I was chasing the love I never got from my dad. No one could ever measure up because they couldn’t give me what I wanted.” She shook her head. “I’m making it sound simple, but it wasn’t—it took a while to get there. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle. At first, all you have is a jumble of pieces. You don’t see the picture until you start putting it together.”

“And do you see it now?”

“Mostly. Enough so that I could be in a relationship without picking it apart.” Kat blushed. Camille had guessed correctly—she was in love. Before she could ask who the lucky man was, Kat’s gaze moved past her to a man who was approaching their table, fortyish, well built and well dressed, with a confident stride.

Stephen Resler.

That was when Camille noticed the table was set for three.

Kat jumped up to kiss Stephen—a kiss that spoke of longer acquaintanceship than their one documented date more than a year ago. Other diners stared, as did Camille. It was hard not to stare. They seemed so happy, two attractive and vibrant people who were obviously, radiantly, blessedly in love. She broke into a grin, though she could scarcely believe what she was seeing.

“Well, well. How long has
this
been going on?” she asked after Stephen had sat down.

Stephen reached for Kat’s hand, in the casual way of couples who have been together awhile. “Would you believe it? We ran into each other in the waiting room at the doc’s office.” He explained that he’d been seeing Dr. McDermott’s partner, whom Dr. McDermott had thought would be a better fit for him. One day, when Stephen was waiting, Kat happened to show up at the same time. “We got to talking,” he said. “Then I asked her out and she said yes, and to make a long story short, we’ve been together ever since.” He grinned. “I guess you could call it kismet.”

“Or maybe just blind luck,” Kat said. “Except
we
were the ones who were blind, for not seeing it to begin with.”

“Pretty hard to see straight when you’ve got your head up your ass,” observed Stephen with a wry chuckle. “Speaking for myself, that is,” he was quick to add at the arch look Kat gave him.

“This is a first for me.” Camille smiled as she shook her head in amazement. “I’ve had couples who didn’t click until the second or third dates, but I’ve never had two people not see each other for a whole year, then have sparks fly. I guess it’s true what they say: Timing is everything.”