The Replacement Wife (36 page)

“What?”

“Break up with someone I’ve never even kissed.”

ANGIE GRITTED HER
teeth, wishing she were home right now with her feet up instead of scurrying around inside a cold, drafty tent trying to keep the cans of Sterno under the hotel trays from going out, while rain sluiced down outside. The event she was catering (a.k.a. the Wedding from Hell) was Murphy’s Law in effect: Everything that could go wrong had. It started with the ceremony, on a cliff overlooking the ocean in Montauk. Storm clouds began to mass as the vows were being read, and she and her staff had barely gotten the 150 guests corralled into the tent before the heavens unleashed. And the downpour showed no sign of letting up anytime soon. It was coming down so hard, they’d had to place champagne buckets throughout the tent to catch the drips. The strong winds had also brought a sharp drop in temperature. Those guests who weren’t too inebriated to notice how cold it was stood huddled in groups, as if for warmth.

Naturally, this did not sit well with the bride. Her Big Day had been ruined, in her view, and because she also happened to be a world-class bitch who’d had no business getting married in the first place (her hapless bridegroom would soon wish he’d gone up in 747 with the shoe bomber instead), she was wound tighter than a tourniquet. The bride had been bitching nonstop—the food was cold, the drinks weren’t flowing fast enough, the crust on the salmon Wellington was soggy. When she wasn’t throwing a fit about some little thing, she was issuing dire threats under her breath, smiling all the while for the benefit of her guests. Not only would she
not
be recommending Angie’s services to any of her friends, she hissed after declaring the gazpacho shooters “a disaster,” she would use her blog to spread word of Angie’s “gross ineptitude.”

The groom, for his part, had responded to the extreme conditions, and his bride’s even more extreme displeasure, by getting trashed. Angie was bent over one of the hotel trays, battery-operated lighter in hand, attempting to reignite a can of Sterno, when she glanced up and saw him weaving his way toward her. It quickly became clear it wasn’t a second helping he was after.

“Hey, sweet thing. Wanna dance?” he slurred, slipping an arm around her waist.

Sober, he was attractive enough in an affable frat-boy way—a good foil for his dark-haired, Ginsu-knife-faced, Pilates-toned bride. Drunk and red-faced, and sweating despite the chill air, he looked about as appealing as the steamed dumplings Angie was attempting to keep warm.

She eased from his grasp. “Sounds tempting, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, come on. Don’ be like that. Wha’s wrong with a lil’ fun?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m working, as you can see,” she pointed out.

He leaned in, his moist lips brushing her ear. “Yeah, I know,” he whispered. “It’d really piss her off, wouldn’t it? You ’n’ me, ha-cha-cha.” He gave her a wink that was more comical than seductive before casting a mutinous glance at his bride, whose attention was fortunately directed elsewhere.

“Look, because you’re drunk and I don’t get paid enough to put up with this kind of shit, I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation,” Angie said in as nice a voice as she could muster.

“I know something that’d piss her off even more,” he went on, ignoring her. He cast another look at his bride before bringing his bloodshot gaze back to Angie. “How ’bout you and me have a drink in the limo? Nice and dry in there. Whaddya say? Toast the bride and groom?”

If he weren’t being so obnoxious, Angie might have felt sorry for him, knowing he faced a life sentence, or at least the next year or two until he wised up, with Bridezilla. But she’d used up her last ounce of goodwill somewhere between the flat tire she’d gotten on the way there and the bride’s carping at her a minute ago because the champagne wasn’t chilled to her satisfaction. Angie was sick of it all: sick of the rain, and getting blamed for not having proper kitchen facilities or even a power source. Now, on top of it all, she had the drunken groom hitting on her.

To add insult to injury, he pulled her close and ground his pelvis into her. It was the last straw. Angie dropped the lighter and, slick as butter on a griddle, her hand shot down to grab his balls. She squeezed hard enough to make him wince. “Keep it up, and you’ll spend your wedding night cuddled up to an ice pack instead of your bride,” she growled.
Though you probably wouldn’t know the difference
.

His eyes flared in surprise and pain; then he jerked free and staggered back, nearly knocking over a tray of glasses when he bumped into the table behind him. He glared at Angie, sober enough now, after having his balls tenderized, to realize he’d picked the wrong person to mess with. “Bitch!” he spat.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Angie muttered, but she was looking at the bride, who was staring at them now, her face more thunderous than the sky outside, when she said it.

Hours later, on the ride back to the city in the company van, all she could think about was the hot shower and stiff drink that awaited her at home. It was well past dark by the time Stylianos dropped her off in front of her building. She let herself in with her key, pausing only long enough, once she was inside, to slip off her mud-caked Crocs before heading down the hallway to her ground-floor apartment.

She wasn’t just drained; she was dispirited. Today’s nuptials were further proof that “happily ever after” existed only in fairy tales. And look at her own track record: One loser boyfriend after another, until finally she’d found the One, who turned out to be the One Who Got Away. They’d had their moment—that one, magical kiss—then
poof!
It went up in smoke. She and Edward had gotten together a couple of times since then, once for the rematch (he won that time) and then a few days later for the lunch she’d promised to treat him to if she lost (she’d taken him to her favorite taco truck), but the way he acted, it was as if the magic moment at Georgia and Mike’s wedding had never taken place. Had she only dreamed it? No. She knew she hadn’t because she’d caught him once or twice eyeing her with—what, regret? Longing? Maybe this was all he could handle right now.

Whatever, it was pointless to speculate, because she’d made the decision to end it—whatever
it
was. She couldn’t go on this way, wishing for what could never be. The fact was, he was married. To a woman he loved; a woman who was dying. It didn’t get more complicated than that. She planned to email him that very night, in fact; it would be easier than telling him in person. Still, as she headed for the shower to wash away the day’s grime, it was with a heavy heart.

Minutes later, as she was toweling off, she heard a knock at the front door.
What the
. . .
?
Frowning, she threw on her robe and dashed to answer it. Most likely it was her neighbor, Justin, from down the hall, who was always showing up at her door in need of something—a coffee filter, milk for his cereal, and once a condom (he’d been going at it with his girlfriend when he’d realized he was fresh out). But when she peered through the peephole she saw it wasn’t Justin.

Her heart leaped, and she flung open the door. “Edward! What are you doing here?”

“I tried calling, but I kept getting your voicemail,” he said as he stepped inside, soaked from the rain still pouring down outside. Angie realized she hadn’t checked her messages since leaving Montauk.

“How did you know I’d be home?” she asked.

“I didn’t, but I took a chance. I figured even if you’d hit traffic, you’d have made it back from Montauk by now.” At the blank look she must have worn—she was still struggling to sort out the emotions tumbling around inside her—he added, “I would have buzzed you on the intercom, but one of your neighbors happened by just as I was about to. He said he lived down the hall from you.”

Fucking Justin,
she thought. “I wouldn’t have heard it, anyway. I was in the shower,” she said stupidly.

“Yes, I can see that.”

She felt suddenly self-conscious in her robe, an old cotton kimono worn to a whisper. “Is everything okay?” she asked. In the ’burbs, it wasn’t unusual for people to drop by unannounced, but in the city no one ever did, unless it was an emergency or a drunken ex-boyfriend showing up at your door in the middle of the night. Edward didn’t appear frantic; nor had he been drinking, as far as she could tell. Still, it could be bad news, the kind he’d felt compelled to deliver in person. Maybe he’d come to the same decision she had, that this dance they’d been doing had to end. Her heart plummeted at the thought, even knowing it was the only sensible course of action.

“Everything’s fine,” he said, but she could tell he was nervous. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope, handing it to her. “I just wanted to drop this off.”

“What is it?” she asked.

He grinned. “Open it and see.”

“Let’s get you out of that coat first. Look at you, you’re soaked.” She tucked the envelope into the pocket of her kimono, too overwhelmed by his presence to be curious about its contents, and helped him off with his overcoat. “What is it with you and umbrellas, are they against your religion or something?”

He grinned, his double-malt eyes crinkling at the corners. As they stood facing each other in the cramped confines of the vestibule, she could see he was having trouble keeping his gaze from straying. It made her nervous but also gave her a perverse satisfaction, knowing he wasn’t immune to her charms after all. “I forgot,” he said simply, not taking his eyes off her. If she hadn’t brought it to his attention, he probably wouldn’t have noticed he was wet.

“Well, come in and sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”

“You’re sure I’m not catching you at a bad time?”

“After the day I just had? It would take a weapon of mass destruction to top that. Long story,” she said at the quizzical look he gave her. “First, I need a drink.”

She ushered him into the area that served as living room, dining room, and kitchen, in the cozy if cramped seven-hundred-square-foot space she called home. Situated on the ground floor of a five-story building, its one selling feature was the patio in back, just big enough to hold some potted plants, her Weber grill, and a wrought-iron café table and chairs: her own pocket-size paradise.

“Nice,” he said, glancing around him. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

“I call it Early Cul-de-Sac,” she said, explaining that most of the furniture was hand-me-downs. “My mom figures if she can’t lure me back to the ’burbs, she’ll bring the ’burbs to me. Have a seat.” She gestured toward the rolled-arm sofa upholstered in chocolate plush that had come out of the den of her childhood home and had witnessed more than one teenage make-out session.

She fetched a bottle of red wine from the kitchen. It wasn’t until they were both seated and the wine poured that she remembered the envelope, tucked in the pocket of her kimono. She pulled it out, and when she opened it and saw what was in it, gave a whoop of sheer delight. It was a pair of tickets for the Bon Jovi concert at Madison Square Garden the weekend after next. “Holy buckets!” she cried. “Who’d you have to knock off to get these?”

“No one,” he replied with a chuckle. “My sister-in-law is friendly with their road manager. When you told me the concert was sold out, I asked Holly if she could pull some strings.”

“Well, I’m forever in her debt. But since there are
two
tickets, I assume you’re coming with me.”

“I wish,” he said with regret. “Unfortunately, I have a conference in Denver that weekend, which I promise you will be every bit as dull as it sounds. But I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone to go with you.”

She felt a stab of disappointment, but quickly rallied. “I’ll ask my sister Frannie. She’s an even bigger fan than I am, if that’s possible. We had all their albums.” They’d even had the obligatory poster on the wall of the bedroom they’d shared, right next to the Jesus plaque from when Frannie was confirmed. “Thanks, it was really sweet of you to think of me. I’m curious, though . . .” She reached for her wineglass, taking a sip. “Why come all this way when you could’ve just sent me the tickets?”

“Would you believe it if I told you I was in the neighborhood?” he said.

“It’s not exactly your neck of the woods.”

“True, but it’s only a twenty-minute cab ride.”

“You uptown guys are all the same—you’d never deign to live here, but you enjoy slumming.”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

He held her gaze a beat too long, which reminded her, she was still in her kimono. She thought about excusing herself to throw on some clothes, but no sooner had the thought entered her head than it melted away. She was having too much fun. As they sat on the plush sofa sipping wine, she told him about the wedding in Montauk, describing in gruesome detail the torments she’d been subjected to at the hands of Bridezilla and Dr. Octopus, the groom. Amazingly, she found she could laugh about it now whereas before she’d wanted to scream in frustration.

“Wow. Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Edward commented, wincing at her recounting of how she’d blocked the groom’s drunken pass. “Though I can’t say I blame the guy. From your description of his bride, I’m sure you were a lot more appealing.”

“Actually, I think it had more to do with the fact that he was wasted.”

Edward gave her a long look as he lifted his wineglass to his lips. “What was my excuse then?”

A jolt went through her at the memory, the low-voltage version of what she’d felt when they’d kissed at Georgia and Mike’s wedding. “Oh, that,” she said lightly, as if she’d forgotten all about it. “Weddings will do that to you. It kind of goes with the territory. Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Clearly, that’s what he wanted to hear. Wasn’t that why he hadn’t made a move, or so much as referred to the incident since then?

He reached up to brush back a tendril of hair that clung to her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. She grew still, as if the moment might burst like a bubble if she moved a muscle or so much as breathed. “I’ve been telling myself the same thing,” he said, “that it was the occasion, or that I’d had one too many glasses of champagne.” He held her gaze. “But if that’s all it was, why can’t I stop thinking about it?”