The Replacement Wife (31 page)

“Not in so many words. But I don’t have to—she feels the same way I do. We both got roped into this.”

“Well, it didn’t look like she was in a hurry to be untied.”

He eyed her uncomprehendingly. God, men could be so clueless! He said, shaking his head, “I don’t know what you thought you saw, but it’s not like that, I’m telling you. She went through a rough divorce, and she’s not looking to get into another relationship.”

Angie wondered again how someone as smart as Edward could be so stupid. She recalled the adoring look on the brunette’s face when the two had been chatting. “Maybe not,” she said. “But love has a way of sneaking up on you.” She ought to know; wasn’t that what had happened to her?

In a fit of frustration and self-loathing, she leaped to her feet and stalked to the edge of the patio, where she stood with arms crossed over her chest, scowling in the direction of the pond. She should have ended this . . . whatever you wanted to call it—friendship? An exercise in frustration?—weeks ago, as soon she realized her rogue heart wasn’t taking orders from her head. But she hadn’t, and now she was paying the price. She heard the scrape of his chair, and a moment later felt his touch on her arm.

“Angie. What is it? What’s wrong?”

She let out a breath, and to her horror, a tiny sob escaped along with it. Oh, God. Why didn’t she just put an announcement in the
Times
? Then she could make it public. “Nothing,” she said.

“You’re angry.” He put his hand under her chin and tipped her head up to meet his gaze.

“Okay,
yes
, but not at you. I’m mad at myself!” she burst out. “Because I care about you
,
damn it. I never expected to, I thought we could just be friends.” She gave a harsh laugh at the perplexed look he wore. “Yeah, I know—so tenth grade.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” he said.

“Then that makes two of us. God, I feel so stupid!” She balled her hands into fists.

“You’re not stupid.” He put his arms around her, pulling her to him to console her.

She was just tall enough for her head to fit snugly against his breastbone, where she could hear the strong, measured beat of his heart. He smelled of a mixture of wine and cut grass and the more subtle scent that was his alone. She tipped her head back, and they both stared at each other for a second as if to say
What now?
He didn’t seem to have any more of a clue than she did. Then, as if drawn by some centrifugal force, their lips met, and she had the most peculiar thought:
This must be what it’s like to get shot
. Except it didn’t hurt. There was the shock of impact, followed by a sudden lightness of being as her muscles went slack and her knees started to buckle. A warm, tingly deliciousness coursed through her. She parted her lips and felt him respond in kind, with an intensity that took her—him, too, she suspected—by surprise. He crushed her to him, and she felt a shudder go through him. A low groan escaped his throat. She wanted to say to him,
Slow down, there’s no rush,
but she knew this might be all they’d ever have.

When they drew apart, he rocked back on his heels and blew out a breath. “Jesus. I didn’t see that coming.” He gave a shaky laugh. “What did your bartender put in those drinks anyway?”

Angie felt as dazed as he looked. “That was some kiss.”

“In my defense, it wasn’t premeditated.”

“You make it sound like murder.”

“Maybe just manslaughter.” He smiled, a smile that fell away as soon as it formed. “Angie . . . look, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not even sure what just happened.”

She sighed. “It’s complicated, I know.” She paused before adding in a more resolute voice, “There’s just something you should know, so there’s no misunderstanding: I’m not the friends-with-benefits type. I may not look it, but I’m an old-fashioned girl at heart.” She might not believe in marriage, but she want to be loved by whoever she was with, if only for the duration.

“I don’t think of you that way,” he said.

“Which leaves us . . . where exactly?” Angie felt as if she were in a car careening down an unfamiliar road at night.

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

“Should we stop seeing each other?”

“That would be the sensible thing, yes. But you know what?” He placed his hands on her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes. “I like you, Angie. I like being around you. You make me feel like . . . like I’m alive instead of barely functioning. I don’t know that I can give that up. I know that sounds selfish, but that’s how I feel.”

She eased the air out of her lungs. “I see,” she said, though she didn’t see anything at all, except the man standing before her, wearing a look that was equal parts confusion and tenderness.

“But I can’t make any promises. If you had any sense, you’d walk away right now, before it’s too late.”

Angie knew he was right—she should walk away, get on with her life, and leave Edward to muddle through his—but it was already too late. Her fate was sealed the second his lips touched hers.

The band started up again inside the tent, the music drifting toward them. Distantly, she could hear the lead singer (a veritable Bono compared to most wedding singers) crooning a familiar tune—“Stardust”—a standard at wedding receptions and one she’d heard a million times, humping trays while others danced. Now, though, it was if she were hearing it for the first time.

“Well, what do you know?” she said. “They’re playing our song.”

Edward smiled at her. “I didn’t know we had a song.”

“We do now.” She held out her arms, and they began to dance.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
he first week in August, Camille arrived home from work on Wednesday to the unexpected, and totally unprecedented, sight of her father seated on the living room sofa with Zach. They were playing an Xbox game—“Arctic Thunder” from the looks of it—both so absorbed they didn’t notice when she entered the room.

“Dad! What are you doing here?” she cried. She hadn’t even known he was in town.

He looked up at her, breaking into a grin. “Well, at the moment my grandson here is proving it’s apparently not too late to teach an old dog new tricks.” He relinquished the controller, then stood and crossed the room to where she stood, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Hi, honey. Sorry to drop in unannounced, but you weren’t answering my calls, so I decided to surprise you.”

There was no hint of reproach in his voice, but she felt a stab of guilt nonetheless. She’d been meaning to get back to him for weeks, but there had always been some reason to put it off: It was too late or too early in the day, she was tired or not feeling well, or it was at an hour when he was likely to be on the golf course. But mainly, it was because she didn’t think it mattered to him one way or the other. He’d made the effort; now he could cross that item off his list. He didn’t really care about her; he was only going through the motions.

Or so she’d thought. Apparently, he cared enough to pay her a visit.

“Don’t worry, I booked a room at a hotel,” he said, at the panic that must have shown on her face.

Zach peeled his eyes from the TV screen to ask, “Can Grandpa Larry stay for supper?” He wore a hopeful look. Never mind that Grandpa Larry was a virtual stranger to her children. Visits were rare, and the only regular contact, outside the annual family dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria or when Camille put the kids on the phone to say hello, were the cards their grandfather sent for their birthdays, always with a twenty-dollar bill tucked inside, and the presents at Christmas.

She hesitated, and Larry was quick to interject, “If you have other plans . . .”

“No. Of course we’d love to have you, Dad,” she said, her manners kicking in belatedly. She put on a smile. “It won’t be fancy, but I’m sure I can rustle up something. Can I get you a drink?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a Scotch and soda,” he said, looking as if he’d been granted an executive pardon. Was she really so hardhearted he had to be grateful to be asked to stay for supper when he’d come all this way? She felt another stab, then resented him for making her feel guilty.

She went into the kitchen. Did she even have any whiskey? She couldn’t recall the last time a guest in her home had requested hard liquor. Most people these days drank wine. She rooted around, finally unearthing a dusty bottle of Johnnie Walker from the pantry cupboard. She was pouring some into a glass when Kyra came flying in, wearing her Lululemon bike shorts and a purple tank top, her hair in a messy ponytail and her feet bare, revealing neon-blue toenail polish.

“Mom, look what Grandpa Larry gave me!” her daughter cried excitedly, waving something at her—a check, she saw, made out to “Kyra Constantin” in the amount of one hundred dollars. “He gave one to Zach, too. He said we could buy whatever we liked. Isn’t that awesome?”

“Awesome,” Camille echoed with considerably less enthusiasm. “You shouldn’t spoil them,” she chided her father after Kyra had dashed off. She poured soda into the glass, then handed it to him.

“What else am I going to spend it on?” he said with a shrug.

You can’t buy love.
“It’s fine just this once, as long as you don’t make a habit of it,” she told him. “Remember, Edward and I still have to live with them after you turn them into monsters.”

While Larry sipped his drink, she began assembling ingredients for a stir-fry. She was surprised when he said, “Can I give you a hand with that?” She couldn’t recall him ever lifting a finger in the kitchen.

“Since when do you know how to cook?” she said, giving him a wry smile.

“Since I had to learn to feed myself.” He stood up, removing his seersucker blazer and draping it over the back of the counter stool on which he’d been sitting, then walked around to where she stood. “You can only eat out so many nights a week, and I never wanted to be one of those old people who subsist on frozen dinners.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You mean you don’t have a bevy of women waiting on you?”

“That gets old.”

“What, the women or them waiting on you?”

“Both. Not that I’m getting any younger myself.” He chuckled as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, then his good humor gave way to a melancholy look, as if at the reminder that his eldest daughter might not have the luxury of growing old. He asked, “What’s the latest word from the doctor?”

“Nothing much to report.” She kept it light, not wanting to get into a heavy discussion. She regretted her outburst that night at the Waldorf. Look where it had led. “Except she has me on this new drug.” He perked up at that, and she was quick to explain the drug was experimental and thus completely unproven. Also, she reminded him, experimental drugs that actually lived up to their hype were rare—the equivalent of a hole in one in golf, to use a metaphor he could relate to. “So far it doesn’t seem to be having any effect, but the good news is, I’m not any worse.”

At regular intervals, she dutifully made the trip across town to New York–Presbyterian Hospital, where she rode the elevator to the third floor of the Payson Pavilion and then made her way down the corridor to the infusion suite (a route so familiar by now she could’ve found her way there blindfolded). There, she lay in a recliner for two hours tethered to an IV, trying to think positive thoughts while toxic, and possibly lethal, substances circulated through her bloodstream. She was receiving the new drug along with the chemo, so her routine had remained unchanged—four days on, four days off. The only difference was the reintroduction of the “thing with feathers” from the Emily Dickinson poem: hope. Hope that, in her case, flew on wings grown clumsy with disuse.

“You’ll let me know if there’s any change?” Larry said.

“Of course.” She handed him a bag of carrots and the vegetable peeler, which he contemplated as if it were some complex piece of machinery. “Does Holly know you’re in town?” she asked as she dumped the other vegetables she’d scrounged from the fridge into the colander to be rinsed.

He looked up at her and nodded, breaking into a smile at the mention of his youngest daughter. “As a matter of fact, I’m meeting her for lunch tomorrow. I was hoping you could join us.”

Camille felt miffed at being an afterthought, then thought,
Why should I care?
She had no wish to be her father’s favorite. “Tomorrow? Sure, I think I could swing that. I’m supposed to have lunch with one of my clients, but I’ll see if I can reschedule.” She didn’t think Kat would mind.

“She’s bringing her friend Curtis. She wants us to meet him.”

“Well, it’s about time.” Camille was anxious to meet the new man in Holly’s life. He’d put in for a transfer after learning Holly was pregnant and was now back in his old job at his firm’s Wall Street offices. Though, for whatever reason, Holly hadn’t been in a hurry to introduce him to her family. Camille didn’t know if it was because she hadn’t yet figured out what role he was going to play in her life and that of their child, or if she thought her big sister might disapprove.

“I just hope he’s nothing like her former boyfriends,” Larry said, voicing Camille’s concern.

She sighed. “Amen to that.” For once, she and her dad could agree on something. Holly’s taste in men had always been questionable at best. Her previous boyfriends included an unemployed high school dropout who’d sold weed to support himself; a lead singer in a garage band that never made it out of the garage; a bouncer at a nightclub, with a shaved head and massive arms covered in tattoos, who answered, for reasons unknown to her, to the name Squid; and, most recently and famously, legitimate rocker Ronan Quist, whose weakness for drugs, alcohol, and groupies (Holly once caught him having sex with two girls at the same time, both underage) was well-documented by the tabloids. There had been no one since Ronan, except the occasional fling. Camille could only hope her sister was ready for a grown-up relationship now that she was about to become a mother. She was encouraged by the fact that Curtis was a) gainfully employed, and b) obviously wished to play a part in his child’s life.

“He sounds normal from Holly’s description, and his job doesn’t involve burning guitars onstage,” she listed the positives as she sliced mushrooms. “Also, he’s prepared to take responsibility for Holly and the baby. That says something. Though I don’t know if Holly got the memo.”