The Replacement Wife (57 page)

There was no question of it now. After months of therapy, he and Camille had finally called it quits. The weekend of her father’s wedding was the final blow. Edward arrived at his father-in-law’s, on Friday, to find that he and Camille, who’d flown down a day earlier with the children, were expected to share the guestroom. (The children were sleeping in the sunroom.) It seemed she had neglected to inform her dad that they were no longer living together. Her excuse was that she’d wanted to wait until after the wedding so as not to cast a pall, but Edward suspected it was because she hadn’t quite come to terms with it. They argued about it, and then spent a miserable night with their backs to each other, huddled on their respective sides of the bed. When he awoke the next morning, it was with a crick in his neck and a pit in his stomach, knowing it was over. Camille knew it, too; he saw it in her eyes.

While everyone else was still asleep, they went outside to discuss it, in a civilized fashion, over their morning coffee. “I don’t want it to get nasty,” she said. “I can bear anything but that.”

“There’s no reason for it to get nasty,” he said.

“You say that now, but once lawyers get involved . . .”

“It’s up to
us,
not the lawyers.” They sat on the patio, which was fenced in by stone walls down which spilled rivers of bougainvillea and lantana, a lush display that seemed almost indecent in light of what they were discussing. Edward reached across the gap between their two chairs to take her hand. “We’ve made it this far without tearing each other apart. Don’t you think we can make it the rest of the way?”

She gazed unseeingly into the middle distance. The sun was coming up. In Florida, the sun didn’t just rise, it announced itself with fanfare: an array of scarlet and pink and gold that formed a showy backdrop against the palm trees that ringed the golf course on the other side of the walled patio. A mild breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of gardenias. Another beautiful day in sunny Fort Lauderdale. Soon the others would be up and about. Larry would conscript him and Curtis for a game of golf. Camille and Holly, Lillian and her daughters, would embark on preparations for the wedding feast. His kids and Lillian’s grandchildren would head for the pool. But at the moment, as he sat watching the sun come up, his only thought was how ironic it was that his marriage was ending, not with a bang, but on a quiet morning with the promise of clear skies.

“Do you remember the first time I brought you home to meet my dad?” Camille turned to face him, wearing a faint smile. “I was so worried you wouldn’t like him or that he wouldn’t like you.” She cast a wry glance in the direction of Lillian’s unit, where Larry and Lillian were presumably still asleep. (Larry had ceded the master bedroom in his unit to Holly and Curtis and the baby.) “Instead, the two of you got on like a house on fire, and I ended up feeling a little left out.”

Edward smiled at the memory. “We talked golf most of the evening, as I recall. I remember being grateful for the summer I caddied at the Sargents’ club.” The Sargents were the family his mom had kept house for. When Edward was sixteen, Mr. Sargent had gotten him the job at the club. Good thing, and not just because of the money he’d earned toward college. Years later, meeting Camille’s father for the first time, he’d have had precious little to talk about otherwise.

“I used to wonder what you saw in my dad that I didn’t. I get it now, but back then . . . ?” She shrugged.

He reflected on their twenty years of marriage. At times, it seemed like only yesterday that he’d first seen her, sitting at the table he later came to think of as “their” table at Barney Greengrass, a blaze of autumn colors. At other times, it felt as if an epoch had passed, with all the seismic shifts, triumphs, and tumults of history books. “It’s been quite a ride, hasn’t it?” he said.

“Yes, and look where we ended up—the breakdown lane.” She gave a low, choked laugh.

They sat in silence, reflecting on this as they sipped their coffee, serenaded by the chattering of birds. Edward heard a distant
thwock
and looked up to see a golf ball go sailing up and up over the trees bordering the eighth green. He was struck once more by the wrongness of this picture. How could his marriage be ending in this peaceful setting on someone else’s wedding day?

He brought his gaze back to Camille. “When should we break it to the kids?”

“We’ll wait until they get back,” she said. “I don’t want it to spoil their visit with Dad and Lil.”

He nodded. “And Holly?”

“I’m pretty sure she already knows.”

Edward hoped his sister-in-law wouldn’t feel she had to take sides, because there was no question which side she would be on. The bond with Camille was unshakable, and whereas Holly was deeply fond of him, he knew, he was no longer the go-to guy in her life. She had Curtis now. And the baby, who he could hear whimpering inside; whimpers that would soon be full-bore cries. Camille heard it, too, and rose to her feet with a sigh. “Well, so much for relaxing on the patio and reading the morning paper.” She eyed his empty mug. “More coffee?”

Edward was taken aback by her calm demeanor. How could she not be as heartsick as he was? Then something caught her eye, and she turned her head. In the sunlight that angled across her face, he could see tears pooled in her eyes, glittering like broken glass. He understood then: She was hanging on to the familiar language and rhythms in order to keep from falling apart.

Had he known, deep down, all along there would be no putting Humpty Dumpty back together again? Probably, if he was honest about it. But he’d had to try, for the children’s sake and because he and Camille still cared for each other. That hadn’t changed. However angry or frustrated he became, his first impulse always was to protect her. Even when he was the source of her pain.

But divorce? Jesus. He’d never imagined it would be this hard. He came home from work each night to an empty apartment. He ate alone when he didn’t have his children over or wasn’t dining out with friends. He slept in his brand-new, king-size bed that had been luxurious to stretch out on in the showroom but that now felt like an ice floe on which he was stranded each night. To make matters worse, he had to muddle through knowing he’d lost Angie as surely as he had Camille. Countless times he’d picked up the phone, only to have the call go unplaced. What would he say? Would she even want to hear from him after all this time?

He didn’t regret having done what he could to save his marriage. He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself otherwise. He didn’t even see it as a failed attempt—nothing could have saved his marriage, he realized now. What killed him was that it had cost him so dearly. He couldn’t just pick up where he’d left off with Angie.
She’d tell me to take a hike, and to be sure my boots were laced tight because it was going to be a
long
one.

On impulse, he leaned in as the car was approaching the Midtown Tunnel. “Driver? Change of plans.”
This is insane, you know that?
said a voice in his head even as he rattled off Angie’s address. Who knew if she was even home? But it wouldn’t have the same impact if he were to phone her instead. There was no substitute for telling a woman face-to-face how much you’ve missed her. Even if he was almost sure to be rebuffed.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up in front of Angie’s building. As Edward go out, his heart was pounding and his throat felt dry despite the bottle of water he’d sucked down on the way there. He instructed the driver to wait, then bounded up the stone steps to the entrance and pressed a button on the intercom. He waited a minute, and when there was no response, jammed the heel of his hand down on the whole row of buttons. Moments later, the buzzer sounded and he was inside. A bearded young man emerged from the first door on his left. “Dude. If you’re looking for Angie, she’s not here.”

Edward recognized him as the guy who’d let him in the first time, and who right now probably was wondering if he was in the habit of dropping by unannounced, or just desperate. Edward had encountered him on several other occasions.

“Do you know where I might be able to find her?” He was careful to strike an even, relaxed tone. He didn’t want to sound like some crazed ex-boyfriend.

The bearded man shrugged. “I dunno. She said something about a funeral.”

“A funeral?”

“Yeah, some rich old dude. It made today’s obits. That’s all I know.”

Edward thanked him and returned to the car. Fortunately, he’d kept the copy of the
Times
that he’d picked up at the airport. Now he scanned the obituary section. Only three of the deceased warranted a full column. Two were women: a prominent civil rights attorney, and a former state assemblywoman. The third was a man named Mendel Blum, a violinist who’d played with the New York Philharmonic and who’d succumbed, at the age of seventy-eight, to some unspecified illness; he was survived by a son and two daughters. Edward phoned the number for the synagogue and a pleasant-sounding female voice provided him with an address for the reception.

Fifteen minutes later, he was dropped off in front of a building on Sutton Place, one of the beautifully preserved prewars that looked out on the East River. The concierge, an older man with a head of thick, snow-white hair and ruddy cheeks, took one look at Edward in his suit and tie and said, “Twenty-eight C, right? You’re a little late. Most folks’ve already left.” He shook his head in sympathy. “Sad about Mr. Blum. Helluva nice guy. Poor Mrs. Kaufman, she’s really broken up about it.”

Edward hadn’t given much thought until now to the bereaved family; he was so intent on finding Angie. It made no sense, this urgency he felt—it wasn’t as if she were leaving the country tomorrow for an extended period of time (at least, he hoped not)—but he had the strangest feeling that if he delayed any longer he’d be too late. Still, he couldn’t just go blundering in. He didn’t want to be disrespectful. Besides, he didn’t know if she was even still at the reception, or if she’d agree to meet with him under any circumstances. All he knew was that he had to see her. He fished his cell phone from his pocket and dialed her number.

THEY WERE IN
the kitchen, where Angie and Tamika were cleaning up after the reception, while Pat, Cleo and Stylianos loaded up the van. On the other side of the dining room that separated the kitchen from the front room, Angie could hear the sounds of David’s sisters seeing out the last of the guests. “I have just one question,” David said. For a panicky second, she thought he was referring to
the
question before he asked, “How did you get the latkes to stay so crispy?”

She eased the air from her lungs. “Baking powder,” she told him. “I’m glad you liked them.”

“I liked everything.”

“Apparently, you weren’t the only one,” she said. “I was worried we’d run out at one point.” Good thing she’d made extra of the chicken and pasta salads. She’d learned from past experience that, however counterintuitive, there was something about funerals that made people ravenous.

“It was the perfect amount,” David said.

She shrugged. “It’s like with the loaves and the fish—somehow there’s always enough to go around.”

“That reminds me,” David said, “My nephew Ethan has a bar mitzvah coming up. The twenty-fourth of next month. Ruth wants to know if you can come. Any chance you can get away then?”

“I don’t know,” Angie hedged. “I’ll have to check my schedule.” She felt guilty for not telling him outright: She wouldn’t be attending any more Blum family events. There was no future with David. After much thought, she had decided it would be wrong to marry a man she didn’t love, even one she would almost surely grow to love in time. Now she had the regrettable task of having to break it to him. Though this was neither the time nor the place—she’d wait until they were alone.

“. . . it’s not the Ritz, but it has a view of the ocean.” Angie tuned in to hear him say. She realized he’d been talking the whole time she’d been lost in thought. “I booked a double, just in case. We could stay at Ruth’s, but it would be a bit crowded, with the four of them plus Aunt Esther.”

“Your aunt Esther will be there?” she said, making conversation.

“That’s the plan. Though, who knows?” He dropped his voice, glancing over his shoulder as if to make sure his aunt wasn’t within earshot. “You may have noticed she’s a little out of it.”

“Understandable under the circumstances.”

“It’s not just because of Dad,” he said. “She’s been pretty vague lately. Ruth’s been after her to hire a companion, but Aunt Esther won’t hear of it. She values her independence too much. Which, by the way, doesn’t stop her from calling Ruth half-a-dozen times a day. Poor Ruth. She spends more time on the phone with Aunt Esther than she ever did with either of our parents.”

“Your aunt doesn’t have children of her own?”

“No. She was widowed at a young age and never remarried. She said she could never find anyone as wonderful as Uncle Harvey. He was her one and only.”

A shudder went through Angie.
That could be me in fifty years,
she thought. Still pining over her One and Only. “That kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime.” The words slipped out before she realized what she was saying. Oh, God. Had she really just quoted from
The Bridges of Madison County
? To David, of all people! She must be losing it, herself.

David, clearly misinterpreting, grinned at her: a tall drink of water lounging in the doorway, his yarmulke, blue embroidered with silver threads, askew on his head from his having been hugged by a million people. Damn. Would she ever learn to watch her mouth? “I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said.

Angie didn’t respond.

She went into the butler’s pantry to put away the silver she’d washed. The butler’s pantry was one of the things she loved best about these old prewars. This one was bigger than her kitchen at home; it had enough storage space to hold place settings for several dozen. Its glass-front cabinets were made of solid walnut and its drawers lined with felt, with slots to separate the various utensils. It had its own sink, with the original brass spigots. She loved how it smelled, too—of Lemon Pledge and the lavender water used in ironing the linens. (Mrs. Kaufman’s housekeeper, an older Haitian lady named Eugénie, had been on hand to help out today and she’d shared some of her housecleaning tips.) When the last serving spoon was tucked in its drawer, Angie turned to go. Only to come face-to-face with David. He drew her into his arms.