The Replacement Wife (15 page)

As luck would have it, that same day she had a lunch date scheduled with a woman whom she’d met while doing a piece for WABC-TV on top female executives of Fortune 500 companies. Over lunch at the Modern, when Susan Longmire let it drop that she’d met her husband through a professional matchmaker, Kat was astounded. Susan was gorgeous and smart, with an MBA from Harvard. Why on earth would she have to
pay
someone to find her a husband?

“You should give her a call.” Susan pressed a business card into her hand when Kat remarked jokingly that she ought to give it a try, since she hadn’t had much luck on her own. “It couldn’t hurt.”

It was all Kat could do not to wrinkle her nose in distaste. “How is that different from Match.com and eHarmony?” Online dating services, in her view, were the last stop on Desperation Express.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Susan smiled. “I thought the same thing when someone first suggested it to me. But really, is it any different from going to a headhunter? Except the goal here is to find the perfect match.”

“Not to sound conceited or anything, but I have plenty of men who want to go out with me,” Kat replied with a frankness she could only have used with another woman who was equally desirable.

“Of course! Look at you, you’re gorgeous! I’m only talking about narrowing the field so you don’t waste time looking for love in all the wrong places,” Susan told her. “Believe me, I know. I dated my share of losers. Until I met Bradley.” With that, she whipped out her iPhone, flashing a photo of her husband, a six-foot-two heart-stopper with blond hair, blue eyes, and the kind of body that blue jeans were made for. And he wasn’t just eye candy. The thirty-nine-year-old Bradley was also a top cardiologist who’d been on the US Olympic ski team in his youth. In his free time, when he and Susan weren’t off skiing in Gstaad or deep-sea diving at the Great Barrier Reef, he volunteered his services for Doctors Without Borders.

Kat phoned the number for the Harte to Heart agency that very day. She met with Camille Harte the following week, and within minutes of chatting with the stylish, energetic matchmaker, she was ready to sign on. The first man with whom Camille fixed her up was a forty-two-year-old systems analyst by the name of Daniel Sides. Daniel was good looking with a full head of hair and the brains to match, so Kat was hopeful at first, and when he oh-so-casually let it drop over dinner at Bouley that he was a Mensa member, mildly impressed. But by the third mention of his Mensa membership, she’d mentally checked out. Then there was Kenneth, the architect, who had the dream house he’d one day share with his dream wife already sketched out. It wasn’t until Kat took him to visit her friend Gretchen, and Gretchen’s three-year-old, who wasn’t fully potty-trained, peed on Kenneth while they were roughhousing on the rug, that she learned he wasn’t as eager to start a family as he was to find a wife. Stephen Resler was the most recent bomb-out. The forty-two-year-old financier seemed promising at first, if a bit rough around the edges. But when he’d started in about his ex-wife, on whom he was obviously still hung up, her interest fizzled. After they left the the restaurant, she thanked him for a lovely evening and hightailed it on home.

Now here she was, once more back in the fray. Earlier in the evening, she’d run into Daniel Sides, sporting a goatee but as pompous as ever, and was relieved when, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, they went their separate ways with apparently no hard feelings on his part. It seemed to set the tone. As she circulated about, no sparks flew with any of the men she met. She wasn’t at her liveliest and knew it; it didn’t help, either, that she was dressed in her work clothes, attire more appropriate for a televised standup on the courthouse steps than a festive occasion. The only interest she got was from a balding stockbroker who stuck to her like a sock fresh from the dryer. It wasn’t until she was attempting to give Mr. Static Cling the polite brush-off that she spotted a man who made her take a second look. And she didn’t just look; she gasped in recognition.

It was
him
. The guy she’d always pictured in her mind’s eye standing at her side on her wedding day. Tall and so handsome he literally took her breath away, with close-cropped dark curls and George Clooney eyes, which at the moment were fixed on her, she realized with a delicious chill of anticipation. She wondered what his story was. Divorced? Widowed? Or was he, like her, a formerly devout single turned romantic hopeful? Whatever, she was dying to meet him.

Unfortunately, by the time she’d peeled away from Mr. Static Cling, George Clooney Eyes was nowhere to be seen. Damn. She could only hope some other woman hadn’t snagged him already. She scanned the crowd, finally spotting him over by the buffet table. She was headed in that direction when she ran into Camille. Kat wasted no time in pointing him out. “Who,” she demanded, “is
that
?”

“You mean Edward?” Camille peered in the direction Kat was pointing. “He’s—”

“Don’t tell me,” Kat groaned, not letting her finish. “He’s taken. I knew it. Damn, just my luck.”

Camille smiled. “I was going to say he’s my husband.”

Kat gasped again, this time in dismay. “Oh.” She struggled to hide her disappointment, making a joke of it. “Well, looks like you got the pick of the litter.”

Camille gave Kat’s arm a consoling pat. “He’s not the only one. Just be patient a little while longer.”

“Oh, I’ve got all kinds of time,” Kat replied sarcastically, thinking of her rapidly shriveling eggs. “Though at the rate I’m going, I’ll be able to pay for the wedding out of my retirement fund.”

Camille’s smile fell away briefly, and Kat noticed how tired she looked. She seemed sad, too, which surprised her. It had never occurred to Kat that the perennially upbeat matchmaker might have problems of her own. Before she could ponder it further, Camille was once more her cheerful self. “Trust me, I’ve been doing this a long time, and I have yet to have anyone ask for a refund.”

But when Camille excused herself to attend to her other guests, Kat caught the flash of tears in her eyes as she was turning to go. There was no doubt about it: Camille was hurting. Kat could only wonder why. Did it have anything to do with that gorgeous husband of hers?

ANGIE PILED A PLATE
with food and then led the way down a corridor that opened onto a kitchen crammed with stacks of cardboard cartons, large plastic containers of food, and platters ready to go out. She had to move some boxes to make room for Edward to sit down. Then, while she bustled about putting the finishing touches on the platters and servers darted in and out, he ate. He hadn’t had much of an appetite lately, but everything tasted so good he suddenly couldn’t get enough: airy little pillows of gnocchi in herb cream sauce, seafood salad with shaved fennel, braised duck breast in ginger-soy sauce, focaccia fragrant with rosemary and garlic, eggplant
involtini
every bit as delicious as promised.

When he’d finally had his fill, he exclaimed, “My God. Where did you learn to cook like that?”

Angie beamed as if he’d paid her the world’s greatest compliment. “The usual way,” she told him. “Culinary school. That, and being screamed at by chefs in the restaurant kitchens I’ve worked in. It makes a real impression, believe me, when you have some big, tattooed dude waving a butcher knife this close to your face.” She held up a thumb and forefinger spread a scant inch apart.

He watched as she sprinkled Parmesan cheese over another platter of eggplant
involtini
. She wasn’t beautiful or glamorous like many of the women he’d met tonight. Her face was free of makeup except for a touch of sheer lip gloss, and the only jewelry she wore was the gold studs in her ears; her hair, the shiny brown of molasses, was pulled back in a ponytail and her attire equally toned down: a plain white cotton blouse and sensible black slacks with a pair of lime-green Crocs peeking from under the cuffs. But maybe it was because she wasn’t going out of her way to impress that he found her so refreshing. He took in the spray of freckles over her nose and cheeks, which made her appear more youthful than was suggested by the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Eyes that were easily her best feature, huge and dark and thickly lashed: those of an Italian film star. Though it was her smile that got to him the most: a smile that made him feel hopeful when he had no reason to, like a shaft of light penetrating a collapsed mine shaft.

“Did you ever stand up to them?” he asked.

“Hell no. I’ve been known to be reckless, but I’m not suicidal.”

“My first year of internship was like that,” he recalled. “You either got tough or got chewed up.”

“Makes for good knife skills,” she said. “Are you a surgeon?”

“No, why?”

“Your hands. They look like those of a surgeon.”

Edward looked down at his hands, loosely curled on the table. He’d only ever thought of them as tools of his trade. But looking at them now, he saw his grandfather’s hands. His father’s father had made his living as a cabinetmaker. As a boy, Edward had loved watching the old man work, the way his supple brown hands caressed the wood as he plied it with his tools. “I thought about going into surgery,” he told her, “but it would’ve meant another four years of residency. You have to draw the line somewhere or you never see your family.”
Not that I see enough of them as it is
.

One of the servers, a slim dark-skinned woman with green eyes and hair in tiny braids looped in a bun, popped in just then, pausing long enough for Angie to introduce her. “Edward, this is Cleo. If you want to know the secret to my success, you’re looking at her.” Cleo flashed him a smile and said a quick hello before dashing off with the platter Angie had finished assembling.

“So, what kind of doctor are you?” Angie brought her attention back to Edward.

“I’m an ear, nose, and throat man.” His specialty was otolaryngology, but most people didn’t know what that entailed or even how to pronounce it, so he seldom bothered to elaborate.

She scooped ground coffee beans into a commercial-size coffeemaker. “Well, now I know who to call next time I have an earache. Though I can’t remember the last time I had to go to the doctor’s. I don’t know if it’s because I’m naturally healthy or because I can’t afford to be sick.”

Edward felt a pang, thinking of Camille. “Be thankful,” he said.

She must have heard something in his voice because she paused to study him, those big, dark eyes of hers fixing on him with an intensity he found a bit unsettling. “Look,” she said finally, “you don’t know me so it’s none of my business, but I couldn’t help noticing you seem kind of . . . tense. Is there anything more I can get you? I think there’s some brandy around here somewhere.”

Was it that obvious, he wondered, or was she just more perceptive than most? Either way, he was disarmed by her candor and sincere-seeming concern. “I wouldn’t say no to a shot of brandy,” he said.

She flashed him her infectious smile, then spent the next couple of minutes rummaging around in the boxes until she found what she was looking for. From another carton, she pulled a couple of glasses and poured a finger of brandy into each. She handed him one, and they clinked glasses.

“Salut!”
she toasted.

He took a few sips, the brandy, along with the food he’d just eaten, warming his insides and prying at the coiled tension in his muscles. “Thanks,” he said. “I feel better already.”

“It’s known as the Italian school of medicine,” she replied as she stood leaning against the counter. “My nonna always said food and wine were the best cure for what ails. So, Edward,” she asked after a bit, “do you feel like talking about it? Again, not that it’s any of my business, so please feel free to tell me to butt out. You wouldn’t be the first.”

“It’s Camille,” he found himself confiding, somewhat to his surprise. The brandy had loosened his tongue. Or maybe it had more to do with Angie herself: She was like a hot toddy on a winter’s day. “I don’t know if she’s told you, but she’s been having some . . . health problems.”

Angie’s smile faded, replaced by a look of concern. “I’m sorry to hear it. She hasn’t said anything to me, but then she wouldn’t. In the three years I’ve known her, I’ve never heard one complaint out of her, not even when she had cancer.” She paused, letting out a gasp. “Oh, my God. Is that it? Is the cancer back?” He nodded gravely, and her face crumpled in dismay. “When I asked what was wrong, I thought maybe you’d had a bad day at the office. I never imagined . . .” Her voice trailed off, her face reddening. “I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”

“Actually, it’s a relief to have it out in the open,” he said. “We haven’t told many people.”

Hesitantly, she asked, “What’s the prognosis?”

“Not good.”

“God, I’m so sorry.” Tears glittered in Angie’s eyes.

“It’s not a death sentence,” he hastened to add, though more to reassure himself than her. “We haven’t run out of options yet.” He hadn’t given up hope that his wife would come to her senses, though every day lost made the already slim chance of recovery that much slimmer.

“Still . . . it’s got to be tough.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “More for her than for me.”

“How’s she taking it?”

“Surprisingly well, considering.”

“She’s amazing,” Angie said. “Honestly, I don’t know how she does it. If it were me, I’d be a total mess. I’d never leave the kitchen. That’s what I do when I’m stressed, I cook. I once cooked so much stuff I had to invite over everyone in my building so the food wouldn’t go to waste. All because my stupid sister decided to have a face-lift and almost died on the operating table.”

“Is she all right now?”

“She’s fine,” Angie said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Julia says it cured her of ever having any more plastic surgery, but I’ll believe it when she’s still saying that at sixty. Though I hope to God she means it, because I don’t ever want to go through that again. A word of advice: Never make marinara sauce when you’re freaking out. It’s not a pretty sight, believe me.”

“At least you had something to show for it.” What did he have except a heap of bitterness?