The Replacement Wife (2 page)

He had some rough edges—evident in his expansive hand gestures and tendency to drop his
r’
s; also his references to family members who were cops and firefighters—but what might be a turnoff for some would be a refreshing change of pace for others: There was nothing metrosexual about Stephen Resler.

“I just have one question,” she said. It was the same thing she asked all prospective clients who were licking their wounds after a divorce. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? Because I get the feeling you’re still not over your ex.”

Stephen gave a rueful smile. “What can I say? Yeah, I still think about Charlene. Probably more than I should. But that’s gotta count for something, right? Shows I’m a caring guy.”

“For this to work, you first have to get someone to care about
you,
” she said in a firm voice. “And that, I can assure you, isn’t going to happen if she feels she’s in competition with your ex.”

He put his hand to his heart. “I’ll be on my best behavior. I promise,” he vowed.

Famous last words, she thought now, a bead of exasperation rising despite her attempt to squelch it. “No. Have him call me back,” she told Dara. The come-to-Jesus with Stephen Resler could wait.

Dara hung up, returning her attention to her computer screen, where the contact info for Stephen Resler was highlighted. “Should I file him under Lost Cause or Hope Springs Eternal?”

Camille sighed. “He just needs some fine-tuning, is all,” she said.

“More like a kick in the ass,” joked Dara.

“Now, now.” Camille cast her a mildly reproachful look. If the situation were reversed—Stephen managing her stock portfolio—she would expect to see results. He should expect nothing less from her.

Dara shook her head in wonderment. “You never quit, do you?”

Dara was the living embodiment of Rule Number One: You didn’t have to be beautiful. She had the kind of looks that could be described as either homely or interesting, and yet because she had the confidence of a head turner and dressed the part—today’s outfit a slim skirt that hugged her bony hips, vintage rayon top, and death-defying heels—she never lacked for male attention. With her non-surgically-altered nose, blunt-cut hair the color of the Sumatran coffee she consumed by the gallon, wide-set green eyes accentuated by eyeliner, and the gap between her front teeth that had defied orthodontics, she reminded Camille of the young Barbra Streisand.

Camille flashed her a grin. “Nope. Don’t know the meaning of the word.”

She picked up the phone and punched in another number. She still hadn’t heard back from Lauren Shapiro about last night’s date with David Cohen. Not a good sign. Could something have happened to nip their romance in the bud? If so, Camille couldn’t think what it might be. The museum curator and bookish Columbia professor had hit it off on their first date, he as smitten with her as she with him. Not only that, they were perfect for each other in every way, both in their mid-thirties with similar interests and backgrounds, and both eager to start a family.

Though not necessarily with each other, it now appeared.

“We had sex!” Lauren moaned.

“That bad, huh?”

“No! It was fantastic!”

Camille smiled. “Okaaaaay. So, what seems to be the problem?”

“It’s too soon! He probably thinks I jump into bed with every guy I go out with.”

“I doubt that. But what if he does? That’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Camille reminded her that most men wanted a woman who was uninhibited in bed. In her eleven years as a matchmaker, she had yet to have a female client rejected for being too sexual. Usually, it was the opposite.

Lauren was too busy fretting to see reason, however. She sounded on the verge of tears. “The thing is, I really like him. I think he might be the One.”

“How do you know he doesn’t feel the same way?”

“He hasn’t called!”

Camille glanced at her watch. It had been less than twenty-four hours, too soon to panic. “I’ll see what I can find out.” She spoke in low, soothing tones. “In the meantime, try not to worry. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explan—” She was interrupted by a call-waiting beep at the other end.

“Omigod. That’s him!” Lauren exclaimed breathlessly. She sounded more like a girl in junior high than a grown woman who was currently curating a major Rothko exhibition. “Gotta go.”

Click.

Camille was smiling as she hung up.

Minutes later, she was in the ladies’ room freshening up for her next appointment, with a writer who was interviewing her for an article for
More
magazine. She applied a fresh coat of gloss over her lipstick, then paused in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection as if at an old acquaintance whom she’d randomly bumped into. These days, it was always a bit of a shock whenever she saw herself in the mirror. In place of her bald head was thick hair that fell in loose, coppery curls to her shoulders. Skin once stretched over too-prominent bones now showed a fine tracing of lines around the eyes and mouth. No one would recognize her as one of the gaunt-faced, pink-ribbon-wearing ladies from her survivors’ group. Her blue eyes had regained their sparkle, as had her ring finger, where the gold band Edward had placed on it nearly twenty years ago, more recently relegated to her jewelry drawer after it kept slipping off, had resumed its rightful place.

Thank God for Edward
. The wives in her group had fallen into two categories: those who’d been emotionally, and in some cases literally, abandoned by their spouses, and those like her whose husbands had been a rock throughout. Although the marriage had had its bumpy spots before she became ill, she had never felt so grateful for Edward as when she’d been bald as an egg, showing more bones than flesh. Nestled in his arms, she was a featherless baby bird that might otherwise be trampled. “You’re strong,” he’d whispered in her ear. “You’ll get through this.”

And so she had. Though even with her cancer in remission and her strength regained, she still felt fragile in some respects. There were nights she lay in bed unable to sleep, the old fear stirring like some restless ghost; waking hours when she felt its cold breath on the back of her neck. She didn’t tell her husband about those fears. Hadn’t she put him through enough already?

She returned to find Dara perusing the menu faxed over by the caterer, for next month’s meet-and-greet. The agency hosted one the first Friday of every month, open to all those on their mailing list, which typically meant anywhere from seventy-five to a hundred guests. The buffet supper was an added expense but worth every penny. In Camille’s line of work, presentation was everything. Good food and decent wine, low lighting and music conducive to romance kept it from being just another crackers-and-cheese event. Guests were inspired to dress up rather than wear what they’d worn to work that day. Everyone looked their best and shone their brightest.

“Your two o’clock called to confirm,” Dara reported without glancing up. Camille consulted her watch. Just enough time to get to the Mandarin Oriental, three blocks away, where she was to meet the writer who was interviewing her. “Oh, and don’t forget your three-thirty doctor’s appointment.” Dara had a mind like a motherboard when it came to keeping track of appointments.

Camille gave a short, mirthless laugh. “As if.” Today was the day she was to learn the results of her most recent PET scan, a moment of truth that loomed over her each time like the sword of Damocles. She put on her Burberry raincoat and grabbed her umbrella; it had been drizzling on and off all week, April showers that showed no sign of giving way to May flowers anytime soon, and if she couldn’t arm herself against potential bad news, at least she could stay dry.

IF CAMILLE HADN’T
known better, she’d have taken Yvonne Vickers for a prospective client. The writer looked to be in her late thirties, with the body fat percentage of an Olympic athlete and blond hair boasting natural-looking highlights affordable only to someone with a six-figure income. The kind of woman who understood it was more about looking good in a T-shirt and jeans than in designer labels. Who, if she was looking for a husband (she wasn’t wearing a ring, Camille had noticed), would see it as an enhancement, not the antidote to lonely spinsterhood.

“What do you say to those who call your profession antiquated?” Yvonne smiled as she lobbed the question at Camille, tape recorder whirring on the table between them.

“We’re not all like Yentl in
Fiddler on the Roof.
” Camille gave a dry chuckle. It was a common misconception. She, for one, was the furthest thing from the stereotypical Jewish
shadchen
. She wasn’t even Jewish and if old-world matchmakers put a premium on modesty and virtue, she was all about style, flair, and the loosening of inhibitions. “Besides, my clients are the ones calling the shots, not their parents.
They
decide when and who they’ll marry. And believe me, the majority of them don’t have any trouble finding dates on their own.”

Yvonne eyed her quizzically. “Why do they need you in that case?”

“They’re busy with their careers and don’t have the time to keep testing new waters,” Camille explained. “Or in some cases, they’ve struck out a few times and don’t trust their own instincts.”

Yvonne arched an eyebrow. “But isn’t that just a highbrow form of pimping?”

Another misconception, this one not so benign. Camille struggled to hide her impatience. “My clients are looking for a life partner, not someone to have sex with,” she replied evenly. “It’s a simple matter of expediency. What might take them years, I can accomplish in weeks or months.”

The writer looked vaguely disappointed at not being able to get a rise out of her, but quickly moved to the next question. “So, Ms. Harte, what makes for a good match, in your experience?”

“Similar backgrounds and values mostly. That, and common interests.” Camille paused before going on. How to put it delicately? “I also have to keep in mind certain, um, physical preferences.”

Yvonne rolled her eyes, momentarily dropping her professional stance. “You’re telling me. The guys I’ve gone out with? Most were overage frat boys obsessed with big tits,” she confided.

Camille, aware of the whirring tape recorder, didn’t comment except to say, “I can’t deny looks are at the top of the wish list for most of my clients,” she replied with a small shrug. “Though women are more willing than men to overlook . . . certain flaws if the rest of the package is to their liking.”

“You mean if the guy’s filthy rich?” The blonde gave a cynical laugh.

“Well, yes, there’s that. But money isn’t everything.”
I certainly didn’t marry for money.
Edward was a struggling med student at the time. Rail-thin and badly in need of a haircut, with the pallor of someone who spent his days in a library carrel when he wasn’t in class. No, what had drawn her to him initially, in addition to the handsome face peering from under all that hair, was his inherent kindness and intelligence. “Mainly what women want is someone who’s smart and nice and can make her laugh.”

“And who’s good in bed,” Yvonne supplied. Camille smiled and sipped her Perrier. The blonde’s eyes dropped to Camille’s left hand. “You’re married, I take it.”

“Coming up on twenty years.” Camille’s face relaxed in her first heartfelt smile of the interview.

“How did you and your husband meet?”

“A suicide hotline, if you can believe it.” She laughed at the look of astonishment on Yvonne’s face—the story never lost its shock value. “Don’t worry, neither of us is suicidal,” she hastened to add. “I was concerned about a friend of mine, and Edward was the one who took the call.”

“How romantic,” observed Yvonne, her tone wry.

“It goes to show, you never know where you might find your soul mate.”

Yvonne dropped her gaze, leaning forward to adjust the volume control on the tape recorder. She consulted her notes before moving on to another topic. “I understand you were a marriage counselor before you became a matchmaker. Why the career switch, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s a long story,” Camille said. “The short version is, I got tired of being around unhappy couples all day long.” There had been days when she used to drag home from work bruised from the verbal battles she refereed. “Now, instead, I get to play Cupid. It’s way more satisfying.”

Camille thought she saw a wistful look flit across the blonde’s face as she commented, “You must go to a lot of weddings.”

Camille smiled. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I don’t get invited to them all.”

Yvonne looked surprised by that. “Really? Why not?”

“Not everyone wants it known they required the services of a matchmaker.” Camille gave a sanguine shrug. “I don’t take it personally. As long as the story has a happy ending, that’s all that matters.”

“So you believe in happy endings?”

Camille thought of her husband and children, fourteen-year-old Kyra and eight-year-old Zach. Despite the past year’s ordeal, she was luckier than most. Not many forty-two-year-old women could say they had it all and mean it: a loving family, a fulfilling career. Her health, too, though it seemed she couldn’t entirely count on that. “Yes,” she answered unhesitatingly. “I truly believe there’s someone for everyone. Some people just need a little help finding that special someone.”

Yvonne smiled and sat back, crossing her slender legs and settling her notebook on one knee. “Which is where you come in.”

“Exactly.”

“How do they find
you
?”

“By referral mostly. But a lot of it is just chatting people up.” Camille was naturally friendly—when she was a child, her mother was constantly scolding her for talking to strangers—whether it was fellow guests at a social function, other ladies in department store dressing rooms or public restrooms, or seatmates on planes. Once, on the shuttle from La Guardia to Boston, she struck up a conversation with an attractive older man. By the time the plane touched down, she’d learned his wife of forty years had died four years prior and he was finally ready to start dating again. She gave him her business card, and six months later she was dancing at his wedding.