The Replacement Wife (59 page)

Holly wasn’t the only one. This past week alone, three wedding invitations had come in the mail. One was from Elise Osgood, who had found love in the last place she had thought to look: right under her nose. She was marrying her long-time friend and colleague, Glenn. She’d sounded happy when Camille had called to congratulate her. The wedding was in October, in Elise’s hometown of Grantsburg, Wisconsin.

It was almost ten-thirty a.m., a few minutes before their scheduled time of arrival, when Camille pulled into the parking spot that had conveniently opened up a block from the church.
You’d show up early for your own funeral,
her sister liked to joke. Camille mentally shook her head, thinking she’d very nearly done just that. She climbed out of the car, and then paused to stretch and take a deep breath. The sun was shining. It was a glorious day—the perfect day for a wedding.

She paused one last time when they reached the steps to the church, checking to make sure Kyra’s dress wasn’t creased in back, and brushing a piece of lint from her son’s suit jacket. “Do you think Aunt Holly’s here yet?” Kyra asked, casting an anxious glance at the open doors to the church.

“If she’s not, she will be soon.” Holly had sent a text message saying she and Curtis were running late—something about a poopy diaper that had necessitated a change of clothing. Luckily, they didn’t live too far from the church. “Even the poopiest diaper doesn’t take that long to change.”

“Eww. Gross.” Zach made a face.

“Baby poo isn’t as gross as grown-up poo,” Kyra informed her brother loftily. She was reveling in her role as Judith’s godmother and took pride in having changed her share of diapers.

“It’s still yucky,” insisted Zach.

“You won’t be saying that when it’s
your
kid,” Kyra told him. Zach gave her a blank look, as if being a father someday was as remote a possibility as being elected president of the United States.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t believe the lengths to which parents will go,” Camille said. “Poopy diapers is the least of it.”

The strains of the organ drifted from the church, and Kyra turned to eye her anxiously. Camille didn’t know if it was because her daughter was worried about abandoning her or that she might embarrass her by putting in an unscheduled appearance. Probably a little of both. “Are you coming in with us?” she asked.

“No.” Camille kissed her on the forehead. She thought Kyra looked relieved, though she couldn’t be sure; the sun was in her eyes, making them water. “I don’t belong. This is your dad’s day.”

EDWARD, SEQUESTERED IN
the sacristy with the Right Reverend Caswell, couldn’t recall when he had last felt this keyed up, and the elderly reverend wasn’t making it any easier. “Did you hear the one about the astronaut and the jockey . . . ?” The old man launched into another of his timeworn jokes—jokes no doubt intended to put nervous grooms at ease but which were having the opposite effect on Edward. He felt as antsy as he had as a kid sitting for school portraits while the photographer told cheesy knock-knock jokes. All he’d been able to think about back then was getting out from under the hot lights and onto the basketball court. His only thought now was of his bride-to-be, who was probably pacing the floor right now, as antsy as he was.

He smiled at the thought. If Angie had ever expressed doubts about marriage, he felt confident that, whatever nerves she was experiencing right now, it wasn’t a case of cold feet. The other day, after she’d returned home in a foul mood from yet another fitting at the Wedding Belles bridal salon in Manhasset (owned by her mother’s best friend, Nadine Pressman, who’d given them a 20 percent discount), he’d jokingly asked if she had any regrets, to which she’d replied, “The only mistake I made was letting my mom take charge. You’d think it was
her
goddamn wedding.” She’d paused to give him that smile of hers that never failed to warm his heart, then said, “
You,
on the other hand, I don’t regret in the least. I’d marry you bare-ass naked if I could.” With that, she’d led him into the bedroom for a sample of what that might look like.

He blew out a breath, releasing some of the butterflies. The last time he’d stood at the altar, with Camille, he’d been too young and inexperienced to know what was in store. When he’d said his vows, he hadn’t given much thought to their practical application. In vowing to love his wife in sickness and in health, he couldn’t have imagined an ordeal such as the one they had faced, years later, when she had cancer. He recalled the poster that had hung in his dorm room, his freshman year of college, courtesy of his roommate Todd Engleson; it showed a tarantula clinging to a roll of toilet paper, with the words SHIT HAPPENS printed below. Shit had indeed happened. But he and Camille had had their share of good times as well as bad. Too many people threw the baby out with the bathwater in a divorce, but Edward knew the key to his future with Angie lay in not losing sight of his past. By remembering what he and Camille had done right as well as the mistakes they had made, he stood a better chance of not screwing it up the next time. Love the second time around wasn’t simply a triumph of hope over experience; it was the sum of those experiences. When he and Angie exchanged vows, those vows would come not just from their hearts but from the scars they had each acquired along the way.

“Reverend, I hate to cut you short,” Edward interrupted the pastor before he could deliver the punch line, “but I think it’s time.” Through the open door to the sanctuary, he could hear the soaring chords of the organ as it segued into “Ave Maria.” After that would come the processional march.

“Quite right, son, quite right,” said the reverend. He sounded a bit abashed, the way old people do when they realize they’ve gone on too long. With his bald head and hunched back, he looked like a tortoise poking its head from its shell. But he gathered himself, smiling and bringing his gnarled hands together in a soundless little clap. “So, are you ready to take the plunge?”

Edward grinned. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He stepped through the doorway into a blaze of jeweled light. He was reminded once more of why he and Angie had chosen this church to get married in. The first time he’d come here was for Judith’s baptism, and though the structure itself was modestly proportioned, he’d been struck by its ornate carvings and the beauty of its stained-glass windows. When he’d suggested to Angie it would make a fine venue for their wedding in lieu of her family’s parish church, since he was divorced and they were both lapsed Catholics, she’d heartily agreed after she’d seen it.

He spotted his parents in the front row, seated with his aunt Catherine and his uncle Cyrus, his cousins and their wives and children filling the rows behind. His little sparrow of a mother in her canary-yellow dress and straw hat, and his father, grown stout with age, looking uncomfortable in the new suit purchased for the occasion. They both looked slightly baffled, as if not quite sure what to make of all this—the whole notion of divorce was alien to them; they knew it existed but had never expected it to be a factor in their lives. Besides, they adored Camille; she was still their daughter-in-law, as far as they were concerned. They wanted him to be happy, though—that was what mattered most. So they were kind to Angie. He couldn’t ask for more.

His gaze drifted to Holly and Curtis, seated a few rows behind his cousins. Initially, Holly hadn’t wanted to attend, out of loyalty to her sister; it was Camille who’d persuaded her, insisting that Holly and Edward’s friendship didn’t have to end just because the marriage had. She’d also made the point that it would feel more normal for Kyra and Zach. Whatever the reason, Edward was glad she’d come. He smiled at the unlikely picture of domesticity she made, seated next to Curtis holding their one-year-old on her lap. Judith stood balanced on her mother’s knees, gripping the pew in front of her as she bobbed up and down, gurgling in delight while the adults around her smiled at her antics. She was too young to know the bride took center stage at a wedding.

His best man gave him a nudge, leaning in to murmur, “You holding up okay, my friend?” Edward turned to smile at Hugh, who managed to look rumpled even in his pressed tuxedo.

“Why, do I look nervous?” Edward murmured in reply.

“Like a racehorse at the starting gate.” Hugh grinned.

The organist launched into the processional march—Bach’s “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Edward’s gaze, along with everyone else’s, was drawn to the doors that stood open to the vestibule, through which the bridesmaids were now making their entrance. First, Angie’s sister Francine, who was matron of honor, then sisters Susanne, Rosemary, and Julia, in that order, all wearing matching rose-colored gowns. Kyra was last, looking unbearably lovely and just as unbearably self-conscious, teetering in her high heels as she made her way up the aisle. He imagined his daughter, ten or twelve years from now, walking down a different aisle on his arm, and felt his heart swell.

Then
she
walked in on her father’s arm, and his breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t seen Angie since she was kidnapped by her sister Julia earlier in the day and whisked off to a salon for the hours of primping Julia insisted were required. Nor had he laid eyes until now on the gown that had been the subject of so much grumbling on her part. Yards of white silk organza cascaded from a fitted lace bodice with spaghetti straps, which on any other woman as petite as she might have overwhelmed but which Angie carried off like a queen. Complementing it was the antique lace veil that her grandmother had worn on her wedding day. The “something blue,” the sapphire necklace she wore, his gift to her. She had never looked lovelier. But what stood out most was the smile she wore, one bright enough to light up the whole church without benefit of its stained glass.

ANGIE, IF SHE’D
had her way, would have opted for a simple ceremony before a justice of the peace. But in the end, she’d bowed to the will of She Who Would Not Be Denied. She owed her mother a church wedding, if for no other reason than that Loretta had kept the faith all these years. Now, as she neared the altar, she spied her mother seated up front next to Nadine. Her hair was sculpted and sprayed into the MGM Productions version of its usual coif, and she wore what could only be described as the mother of all mother-of-the-bride outfits—a brocade suit shot through with shiny threads and a pink blouse with more ruffles than a cancan skirt—though it was no match for her smile, which was wide enough to wrap around her neck and meet itself in the middle.

Angie might have felt drab in comparison, but her gown
was
beautiful, she had to admit. More importantly, she felt beautiful in it. Earlier, when she’d stood in front of the mirror for the final reveal, after her mother and sisters, and the stylist Julia had hired, had finished fussing over her and fiddling with her hair, she had decided it was worth the torture of all those fittings. It was certainly a vast improvement over the gown fashioned out of toilet paper Francine had made for her at her bridal shower, though she’d had more fun being “fitted” for that one. She smiled at the memory. She and her sisters had laughed themselves silly parading around in their toilet paper creations, which had led to more silly games, like seeing who could pile the most cotton balls on her head. Finally, stuffed on sandwiches and petit-fours, and half-drunk on champagne, they’d collapsed on the sofa, snuggled together like a litter of puppies, to watch
Bridesmaids
on DVD.

Angie didn’t think that could be topped, until the bachelorette party, at her friend Bartholomew’s restaurant in the Flatiron District, where she’d once worked as
garde manger
. Everyone came, even the kids from her cooking class. The highlight of the evening was the rap number composed by Daarel in honor of the occasion, which he performed, quite credibly, with his wingmen, Tre’Shawn and Julio, singing backup. Though it was her karaoke rendition of “Unchained Melody” that brought the house down, albeit not in the way one with aspirations of a singing career would hope.

Now, though, there was only the tall, handsome man waiting for her at the altar. Angie’s pulse quickened as she drew nearer. The trip down the aisle was short compared to the much longer journey of getting to this point. A journey that had had its share of tears and setbacks, most recently with Edward’s children, who understandably weren’t too thrilled about their dad’s remarrying (although Angie felt she was making progress, especially with Zach), but that she’d take again in a heartbeat.

Flanking Edward on the right were his groomsmen: his closest friend and best man, Hugh; two of his cousins, Pete and Roman; Darryl Hornquist, his former roommate from med school; and Zach, looking solemn and grown-up. On the left were Angie’s sisters: Francine, ten pounds lighter thanks to the Weight Watchers program she was on; Susanne, her curly mane cropped in a breezy new style and the diamond tennis bracelet her husband had given her for their fifteenth anniversary, which they’d just celebrated, sparkling on her wrist; Rosemary, whose offer to play the organ in lieu of acting as bridesmaid Angie had politely but firmly declined; and Julia, sleek and glamorous as a runway model. Angie recalled the prayer Julia had uttered while they were standing outside preparing to make their entrance, one that seemed perfectly suited to the occasion.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, may my baby sister have better luck than I did the first time.

At the very end stood Kyra, the most gorgeous of them all. Angie thought back to when she’d first met Edward’s daughter, who’d pointedly ignored her throughout the meal, at the restaurant to which Edward had taken them. While Zach played with his Gameboy, Kyra directed a bright stream of chatter at her dad, about people Angie didn’t know and past events she hadn’t taken part in. It had taken her days to recover, and she’d been sure there would be no winning Kyra over, ever. Their relationship was still a work in progress, but Kyra had thawed considerably since then. If the way to Zach’s heart was through his stomach (he was a sucker for homemade french fries), Kyra was interested in how the food was prepared. She often found excuses to be in the kitchen when Angie was fixing dinner; she’d ask questions, or if she was in an especially relaxed mood, offer to help. Angie didn’t know if she’d ever be completely forgiven for having replaced Kyra’s mom in her dad’s affections, but she hoped they would be friends someday. In the meantime, she had her nieces and nephews, and Zach when he was being affectionate, as well as her “posse”—Tamika, D’Enice, Chandra, Daarel, Tre’Shawn, Julio, Jermaine, and Raul—to satisfy her kid fix.