The Replacement Wife (48 page)

He only chuckled, where once he’d have taken her hand and tenderly kissed each of its bruised fingers. Her elation gave way to a heavy heart. It was the happiest of occasions—
a baby!
—and yet, she felt bereft all of a sudden, looking at Edward. He was smiling, but his eyes were sad.

When Larry and Lillian took the children to the nursery to see the baby, Camille sank wearily onto the sofa, and Edward sat down beside her. He put his arm around her, and she dropped her head onto his shoulder with a sigh. He’d always been the bulwark in every storm, but now was it enough?

THEY WERE DRIVING
home when it began to rain. Fat droplets splattered against the windshield like eggs hurled by Halloween pranksters, quickly becoming a torrent. Camille peered out her window as they inched their way over the Manhattan Bridge in the Volvo, in bumper-to-bumper traffic, to the
swish-thwop-swish-thwop
rhythm of the windshield wipers. The city skyline stretched before them, the tops of the skyscrapers obscured by low-hanging clouds. Thunder rumbled, punctuated by flashes of lightning. Camille observed to no one in particular, “A fitting finale to the day.” She turned to address Lillian, in the backseat with Larry and the children. “My sister has a flair for the dramatic. She’s not like other people, you may have noticed.”

“And thank goodness for it,” Lillian replied staunchly.

Kyra said to Lillian, “One time, this totally sleazy cop pulled her over for speeding and then said he wouldn’t give her a ticket if she’d give him her phone number, and she told him he could kiss her—” She broke off, darting a look at her mom. “Um, actually I don’t know if my parents know that story.”

Lillian just smiled. “Well, good for her. The world could use more people like your aunt Holly. People who aren’t afraid to speak their mind. In fact, she reminds me of someone else I know.” She cast an admiring glance at Larry. “You should have seen your grandfather at our last condo association meeting. He was magnificent—a lion in full roar!”

Larry murmured, “Oh, now, it wasn’t quite as dramatic as all that.”

“He’s being modest,” Lillian went on. “It all started with that nasty little man, Lyle Humphries. He and his fellow Fascists think they run the association. The latest was, they tried to vote in a regulation that would ban children under the age of twelve from using the pool. Imagine!”

“That’s a stupid rule!” Zach cried. Then in the next breath, “What’s a Fascist?”

“Bad people who tell other people what to do,” Kyra told him.

“God knows what would have happened if your grandpa hadn’t put a stop to it,” Lillian said.

Edward grinned. “This I’d like to hear.”

“Yes, Dad. Tell us what happened,” Camille urged.

“It was nothing, really.” Larry ducked his head in modesty.

“Nonsense. He saved the day!” Lillian insisted. “I wish you could have seen it. He organized a coup to oust Lyle before the little Napoleon could get his cronies to push the vote through.” She turned again to smile adoringly at Larry. “I think that was when I knew I loved him.”

“Wow. I’m impressed,” Camille said. “How did you manage that, Dad?”

“I’m friendly with some of the other board members,” he said. “Most of them aren’t like Lyle. I asked how they would feel having to tell their grandchildren the pool was off-limits. That brought them around to my way of thinking pretty quick. All except Lyle, who doesn’t have grandkids. They saw it my way, too, when I suggested it might be time for Lyle to step down.”

“Nasty old bugger,” muttered Lillian.

“I was thinking of Zach,” Larry said. “How much fun we had when he visited.” He reached over to ruffle Zach’s hair. “Wouldn’t want anything to spoil our next visit, would we, son?”

“Which reminds me, Larry and I were hoping the kids could stay on for a few extra days after the wedding,” Lillian said. “We’ll have my grandchildren, so it wouldn’t be just us old folks. Do you think you’d like that, if it’s okay with your parents?” She turned to Zach and Kyra.

“Awesome!” Zach cried. As if it had already been decided.

Even Kyra looked as if she’d be okay with it.

“Doesn’t sound like much of a honeymoon,” Edward commented.

“The honeymoon can wait,” Larry said. “When you’re retired, there’s all kinds of time to take trips. It’s time with the family you never get enough of.” He cast a meaningful look at Camille.

Camille felt touched. “I don’t see why not.”

When they got to the city, they dropped Larry and Lillian off at their hotel, on Amsterdam Avenue, and the kids along with them. Larry had promised to bring Kyra and Zach home as soon as they’d been fed. They’d skipped supper and were both starved. Larry had said they could order from room service, which Zach considered the height of luxury.

By the time Edward and Camille pulled into their parking garage, the rain, which had tapered off, was coming down hard again. They left the Volvo with the attendant and made a dash for home, cursing the fact that neither of them had brought an umbrella. They’d made it halfway when the heavens unleashed a torrent of biblical proportions. They ducked into the nearest doorway.

“Next time, remind me to tune in to the weather forecast,” Edward muttered as he brushed at the raindrops clinging to his coat.

“Cloudy with a chance of rain, it said. Some chance.” She shook out her wet hair. The ledge under which they stood huddled sheltered the lower-level entrance to one of the brownstones that lined their block. A brass plaque beside the wrought-iron gate showed it to be the offices of a Karl Bronstein, MD.

“It doesn’t look as though it’s going to be letting up anytime soon.” Edward peered from under the dripping ledge. The exterior light mounted on the brick wall inside the gate cast an eerie glow over his face, making hollows of his eyes and carving deep lines on either side of his mouth.

“I should have thought to bring an umbrella,” she said for the third time.

He turned to her and smiled. “You had a few other things on your mind.”

She sighed. “What a day. Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister dearly, but the way she carried on, you’d have thought she was the only woman on the planet ever to give birth. Though,” she added with a smile, “it
is
quite a story—one to tell her grandchildren someday.” The tale of Holly’s water breaking on the D train going over the Manhattan Bridge was surely as dramatic as any from those who’d given birth at Woodstock.

“Remember when you were in labor with Kyra?” he said. “The maintenance man who came into your room to change a lightbulb?” Camille smiled at the memory. She’d been in the middle of a contraction at the time, so she hadn’t exactly been seeing straight. “You mistook him for a male nurse and asked if he’d kindly hold off on the enema until after you’d seen your doctor.” Edward laughed and shook his head. “Poor guy. I never saw anyone take off so fast.”

She recalled, too, when Edward had held their daughter in his arms for the first time. The look of tenderness on his face as he’d gazed at the tiny miracle they’d produced. How he’d said to her, Camille, with tears in his eyes,
Do you know how much I love you? Do you have any idea?

Would he be able to say that to her now? She felt her heart buckle like a weakened girder. “A lot of water under the bridge since then. No pun intended,” she added, looking out at the rain.

He chuckled. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“No, and a good thing, too, because it’s gotten me through more than one crisis.” She watched a woman passing by on the sidewalk pick her way around a puddle, clutching a wind-mangled umbrella. “Let’s see, we’ve had the biblical plagues and now an epic birth. What’s next?”

He didn’t respond, and when she brought her gaze back to him, he was staring sightlessly ahead, lost in thought. Something was clearly weighing on his mind, and she had a pretty good idea what it was. She felt a surge of sorrow and regret, pouring through her like the runoff gurgling in the drainpipe that angled down the side of the building. “Oh, Edward. I’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t I?” she said in a choked voice.

He turned to look at her, and she saw the subtle shift as he rearranged his features into a neutral mask. “You did what you thought was best,” he said. His voice was kind, and that was what really killed her. He would always be taking care of her, even now that she no longer needed to be taken care of. Even if it was at his own expense.

“And now you’re unhappy because of it.” There, she’d said it. Part of her wanted to snatch the words back, but she knew if she didn’t confront this now, the opportunity would pass, dragging them along with it into some dreadful state of simply making do. She couldn’t let that happen. Not after everything they’d been through, after everything they’d once meant to each other. She thought,
I’m tired of pretending everything’s going to be okay just because
I’m
going to be okay
.

Instead, it was Edward who sought to sidestep it. “Did I say I was unhappy?” An edge crept into his voice.

“No, but it’s obvious. To me, at least.”

“We hit a rough patch. It happens. We’ll get through it.”

“You make it sound like some grim duty.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do I? Or is that just your interpretation?”

Camille squeezed her eyes shut. Lately, whenever they argued, it was always like this. Nothing ever got resolved; they just became more angry and frustrated. Because they were circling, forever circling, never getting to the heart of the matter. Never touching on the
real
issue.

In a fit of desperation, she grabbed the front of his overcoat, clutching the thick, wet wool hard enough to drive a button into the soft meat of her palm. Blood rushed into her head, a hot surge. “Say you love me then! Say it, so it we can move on. But you have to mean it, or it won’t count.”

He looked startled by her outburst. She was always so civilized—they both were—so careful not to get too near the chasm that yawned at their feet. “Of course I love you,” he said guardedly.

“Why? Because I’m your wife?” She let go and took a step back, her hands dropping to her sides.

“Jesus, Camille. What do you
want
from me?”

“I know you love me enough to stay with me. You’ve already demonstrated that,” she said. Tears prickled behind her eyes. “What I want to know is if you love me the way you love
her
?”

He flinched, and she knew she’d struck a nerve. “I’m not going to answer that,” he said coldly.

“Why, because you don’t want to hurt me?” As if anything he said to her now could be any more hurtful than what she’d imagined.
You think I haven’t noticed how preoccupied you’ve been lately? Or the sad look on your face when you don’t know you’re being watched? Even when we make love, you’re not fully present—you’re somewhere else in your mind.

“I’m here, aren’t I? What more do you want?” he said.

Camille felt her resolve start to crumble, but she knew she had to stay the course. Her life might not depend on it, but her marriage did. “All right, let me put it another way.” She sucked in a breath. “Supposing I
had
died. Supposing you were a free man. Would you be with her right now?”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. A flash of lightning illuminated the stairwell just then, and in that split-second she saw the answer on his face: in the dark glint of his eyes, and in the set of his jaw. She knew what it had cost him to give up Angie, and the realization was like a shot in the heart.
The truth shall set you free,
she thought.
But free to do
what,
exactly?

She looked away from him, staring miserably out at the pedestrians slogging their way along the sidewalk, partially obscured by umbrellas, some clutching leashes as they urged on bedraggled dogs. “Yes, I did what I thought was best,” she said. “But I was thinking with my head and not my heart. And why was that?” She turned slowly to face him, her gaze locking onto his. “I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. And the only answer I can come up with is this: If our love had been as strong as it was in the beginning, would I have done what I did? Would you have agreed to it? Would either of us have been willing to let go of the other, for any reason whatsoever?”

“I never stopped loving you,” he insisted.

“I know,” she said. “But it’s not the same anymore, is it? It was never the same after I got sick. They warned about this in my survivors’ group. About how you can grow to resent the person who’s taking care of you. And how that person can grow to resent you. Who wouldn’t, having to look after someone who’s sick and grumpy all the time, and who looks like hell even on their best day? I thought we’d be different, but it turns out we were just like everyone else.”

“I didn’t resent you,” he said.

“Then you’re a better person than I am,” she said.
Or maybe just not very honest with yourself.
“I resented you at times, yes. I was grateful to you, but I also resented you. When I was in the hospital, there were days when I thought I’d go mad from the pain and from being cooped up for so long.” Even remembering that time was painful. The weeks of being isolated in a sterile unit while she underwent the stem cell transplant: weak as a newborn and with every part of her body aching, her mouth and throat riddled with sores that made it hard to swallow, her eyes burning as if someone had poured sand into them. “I needed someone to blame. And you were there. You were always there. The devoted husband with his wreck of a wife. Does that make sense? Of course not. That’s my point: We’ve been acting on the assumption that any of this makes sense.”

He eyed her unhappily. “We can’t change what happened, but we can get past it.”

She wanted to believe that, but if they could get past it, they would have by now. They would have made inroads, at least. Instead, they were both stuck. “I’m not so sure,” she said. “Edward, we crossed a line that should never have been crossed. How do you come back from that?”

“You just do,” he said. “Other couples have. Why not us?”