The Replacement Wife (28 page)

He asked, “Is that the hormone-based drug?” Regina, wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored gray slacks, nodded in response and handed him a steaming cup. “I didn’t know it was in trials.”

“It’s not.” The trial was months away yet, she told them. “But I’ve spoken to Dr. Rose about it, and given the urgency in Camille’s case, he’s agreed to make her a test subject.” Dr. Ira Rose, an old friend of Regina’s, was head of the research team at MD Anderson that was developing the drug. “That is, if you’re willing.” She directed her clear-eyed gaze at Camille as she passed her a cup, which clattered in its saucer as Camille took it from her with trembling hand.

“And you think I’d make a good candidate?” she asked.

Regina sat in the wing chair opposite them, where the sunlight slanting through the windows revealed the tiny lines in her face. When she spoke, it was in a measured voice. “Yes and no. As you know, patients with stage-four cancer are less likely to have a . . . positive outcome. That said, since you wouldn’t be foregoing other treatment options, you’d have nothing to lose.”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Camille stammered. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her husband staring at her in stunned disbelief, no doubt wondering why she wasn’t jumping at this opportunity. But if she wasn’t, it was only because she was fearful of getting her hopes up. Because they could so easily get crushed. She had worked so hard at acceptance, and now she was being asked to give that up, to be plunged back into a sea of uncertainty. “What are the risks?”

“There’s no way of knowing at this point. You’d be the canary in the coal mine, so to speak.” Regina paused, as if to let this sink in, before going on, “There could be side effects, possibly debilitating ones. Or even fatal.” She always told the truth, even when it was brutal; it was one of the traits Camille admired in her doctor, though right now she could have used some sugarcoating.

“In other words, I could die sooner rather than later?” Camille began to shiver and wrapped her hands around her steaming cup to warm them, though it did nothing to relieve the chill she felt.

“Yes. But there’s also the possibility you could improve.”

“What are the chances of that?”

“Impossible to say at this point.” Regina leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea. “But there have been many cases in which experimental drugs have saved lives, even with patients in the final stages of a terminal illness. I’ve seen it with some of my own patients. So, yes, there’s always hope.”

Hope. There it was again, dangled before Camille like a prize in the dime-toss booth at a carnival.
Step right up. You could be our lucky winner!
Or, more likely, she’d lose. Not just the battle, but any control she had over her fate. Even her body would cease to be her own; it would once again become the property of doctors and nurses and lab technicians, theirs to poke and prod and subject to endless tests. She recalled when she’d been hospitalized the last time, in an isolation unit for weeks on end, more dead than alive. She’d gladly have finished the job had she had the strength or means.

On the other hand, this drug could work. Even if it didn’t cure her, it could buy her time—years maybe. Years in which to watch her children grow and to mend what was broken in her marriage. How could she say no to that? “I suppose it’s worth a try,” she said, giving a tentative smile.

Edward took her hand, squeezing it. Regina looked pleased. “I’ll let Dr. Rose know,” she said.

“How soon can she start?” Edward asked eagerly.

“Hopefully, by the end of the week. The first shipment is on its way as we speak,” she informed them.

Camille tilted her head at her doctor. “You knew my answer would be yes?”

Regina smiled at her. “Let’s just say I hoped it would be.”

Camille knew it was the only answer she could have given; even so, minutes later when Edward turned to grin at her as they were being ushered out the door, beaming as if they’d just won the Mega-Millions jackpot, she wanted to caution him,
Don’t count the prize money just yet
.

She took his arm as they strolled along the sidewalk. Normally, they would have headed straight to their respective workplaces, but with this news to absorb, they were taking their time. They were on East Sixty-First Street, approaching York Avenue, when suddenly it all caught up to her. Her step faltered, causing her to clutch more tightly to her husband’s arm. Longingly, she eyed the wooden bench up ahead, in front of the Abigail Adams house. “Do you mind if we sit down?” At the worried look he shot her, she assured him, “I’m fine. I just need to catch my breath.”

“It’s a lot to take in, I know. But this is good news!” he said after they’d settled onto the bench. His face was animated, and there was a light in his eyes where before there had been only the dull gleam of whatever dark thoughts lay within; it had been a long time since she’d seen him this excited. “There’s been a lot of buzz online and in the journals about this new drug. They’re saying it could be the next big breakthrough in cancer research. If it is, it could also be the answer to our—”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she cut him off. “We mustn’t get our hopes up too much.”

“But at least there
is
hope.”

“Yes, but it’s still a long shot. And there could be side effects. I could end up in even worse shape.”

The light in his eyes dimmed, giving way to a frown. “You can’t think that way.”

Camille regarded her husband of twenty years, still as handsome as on their wedding day, more so in some ways, even with gray hairs and his face showing evidence of the strain they’d both been under. Dear Edward, who had been sorely tested and would be tested further. She wanted to believe, as he did, that this could work. But hadn’t her mother clung to the same hope?

There was something else weighing on her mind, too. Elise had phoned yesterday, inviting them to supper, to repay them for their hospitality this past weekend, she’d said. (Though, really, if anyone was indebted, it was them—Elise had been a godsend during a tough time.) They’d set a tentative date, and Camille had promised to get back to her as soon as she’d checked with Edward. But she had mixed feelings. She’d hoped her family would grow to love Elise in time, but had been unprepared for the quickness and wholeheartedness with which they’d embraced her. The kids were apparently crazy about her, and though Edward hadn’t voiced his opinion outside a few neutral comments, his silence on the subject spoke louder than any words. Clearly, he was taken with her (and why not? She’d been hand-selected, with exquisite care, by the expert) and had decided the less said about it the better. Camille would long remember the picture Edward and Elise had made standing at her bedside in the hospital. She was jealous, she realized. Despite her best efforts to contain it, the green-eyed monster was on the loose.

“By the way, Elise called and invited us to supper,” she informed him a few minutes later when they were standing on the corner of York Avenue and First, waiting for a cab to come along. “I told her I’d have to check with you.” She wanted to give him an out, should he wish to decline. Part of her, the selfish part, wished he would. Hadn’t her doctor provided the perfect out: a possible cure? At the same time, Camille knew it was wrong to wish for that. Chances were this new drug wouldn’t work. She couldn’t lose sight of what was best for her family. In her absence, they would need the constant, loving support only someone as kind and giving as Elise could offer.

She studied Edward as he stood at her side, his gaze trained on the traffic whizzing past, keeping an eye out for a cab that had its light on. What was he thinking? He appeared to have warmed to Elise, but she never knew with him anymore—his mind was a locked vault. Perhaps he was only pretending to like Elise, though she doubted he was that good an actor. Also, there was the way he’d looked at Elise, that day at the hospital—like they were already married, a couple visiting a sick friend.

Her heart sank at his reply, even though she knew it was for the best.

“Sure, sounds good,” he said distractedly. “Just let me know the date, and I’ll put in on my calendar.”

CAMILLE ARRIVED AT
her office later that morning to find a stack of pink message slips on her desk. The top one had Stephen Resler’s name on it and was marked “urgent.” She phoned him at once. She hadn’t heard from him in over a week, which normally wouldn’t be cause for concern except that Stephen was one of those clients who was in the habit of checking in with her daily (she’d once told him jokingly that his Bluetooth device would have to be surgically removed when he retired). She’d meant to call earlier to see how things were progressing—or not—with Carole Hardy. Though she had nothing to worry about on that score, as it turned out.

“We’re engaged!” he announced. “I popped the question last night, and she said yes.”

Camille didn’t know what to say. Normally, she’d have cheered at such news, but she couldn’t help wondering if he was jumping the gun. He was still on the rebound, which tended to cloud one’s judgment. It might have been wiser to have waited another month or two, at least. Finally, she rallied and said, “That’s wonderful! Have you two set a date?”

“Not yet. We still have a few kinks to iron out.”

His guarded tone prompted her to ask, “Such as?”

“I told her I wanted a prenup. She was fine with that, but here’s the thing . . .” He paused, and she braced herself. “She offered to have one of the other partners at her firm draw it up, free of charge.”

“And that’s a problem?”

The question was met with another, longer pause, and she sensed a shift as the old, once-burned Stephen Resler took the place of the new, happily engaged one. Finally, he burst out, “How do I know she’s not in cahoots with this other lawyer? I don’t want to get screwed in another divorce!”

“I see.” Camille took a moment to process this. “And have you told her how you feel?”

“Are you kidding? She’d think I didn’t trust her!”

“It sounds as if you don’t.”

“It’s not
her—
she’s great. It’s just . . .” Stephen exhaled audibly. “My ex-wife really did a number on me, so I have some trust issues.”

“With reason. But if you allow yourself to get bogged down dwelling on the possible pitfalls, you’ll never be able to move on,” she advised. “Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith.” She thought of her own leap of faith in agreeing to try this new drug. And before that, with Elise.

“I hear you,” he said. “And I’m willing to take that leap. I wouldn’t have put a ring on her finger if I wasn’t—which, by the way, cost me a bundle. But if, God forbid, this doesn’t work out, I can’t afford to be taken to the cleaners a second time. I gotta make sure I’m protected.”

“Then you need to tell her you’d be more comfortable using your own attorney.”

“Won’t she be insulted?”

“Stephen, this is the woman you’re engaged to,” she reminded him. “If you can’t be honest with her now, what will it be like once you’re married? If this is a deal breaker, better to know now.”

He sighed. “So you’re saying I gotta bite the bullet?”

“Yes.”

After she’d hung up, she declared, “Lord help us. It’ll be a miracle if that man ever makes it to the altar. If he does, I’ll dance at his wedding even if I have to be carried onto the dance floor.”

Dara looked up from her computer. “Speaking of which, don’t forget you have a wedding on Sunday.”

Camille frowned, struggling to remember which of her clients was getting married, before it finally came to her. “Right. Georgia and Mike. Thanks for reminding me.” It had slipped her mind in all the confusion of the previous weekend. Now she thought back to when she’d first met Georgia Dershaw, at the same fund-raiser, coincidentally, at which she’d been introduced to Elise, who was a close friend of Georgia’s. At the time, the attractive blond advertising exec had been single and looking. (Georgia had jokingly remarked that if she were to meet a man who had all the right qualities, she’d think she was hallucinating and that it was time for the men in the white coats.) Four months later, she was engaged to Mike Kennedy, the handsome, dynamic software engineer she’d met at the meet-and-greet to which Camille had subsequently invited her. “I should get them a gift. Do you know offhand where they’re registered?”

“Already taken care of it,” Dara informed her. “A lovely set of crystal goblets, if she should mention it. I also arranged for a car to pick you up—eleven o’clock sharp.” The ceremony and reception were to take place at the bride’s parents’ estate in Greenwich, an hour’s drive from the city. “Oh, and you need to pick up Edward’s suit at the cleaner’s. The claim ticket’s on your desk.”

Camille regarded her former assistant turned partner in wonderment. No one would ever know it to look at her, especially in the over-the-top outfit she had on—a frilly, semitransparent fuchsia top, paired with an above-the-knee coral skirt and tangerine platform heels, that brought to mind a tequila sunrise, attire more suitable for a hostess in an upscale cocktail lounge than a professional matchmaker—but Dara was the soul of efficiency. “You put me to shame, you know that?”

Dara shrugged modestly. “Just doing my job.”

“More like both our jobs.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just look after yourself. Or I’ll be stuck going to all those functions in your place while you enjoy your eternal rest,” Dara quipped, and then quickly ducked her head, though not quickly enough for Camille to miss the gleam of tears in her eyes. That was another thing about Dara—if she was a tough cookie, it was the kind with the soft center. “By the way, I spoke with Georgia, when I called to find out how many of those goblets she’d need. Sounded like she had a handle on things—none of the usual bride jitters. Did you know she hired Angie to cater the reception?”

“No, I didn’t. But I’m glad that worked out.” It had been Camille who’d suggested it. It was only fitting, since Angie was the official Harte to Heart caterer, and it had been at one of their meet-and-greets that Georgia and Mike had become smitten with each other.

Camille remembered something else: Elise was one of the bridesmaids. Another thing that had slipped her mind in the haze of the past weekend. She wondered if Elise had mentioned it to Edward. If so, he hadn’t said anything to Camille about it. Either it had slipped his mind, too, or she’d been right in suspecting he was keeping his true feelings for Elise under wraps. At the thought, the green-eyed monster stirred to life once more.