The Replacement Wife (43 page)

“You should become a lesbian,” Francine teased, and this time it was Angie who snorted.

“Go ahead, make fun,” their mother said, pretending to be miffed. “But it won’t seem so amusing when you’re the only one at your class reunion who doesn’t have baby pictures to show off.”

“Ma, I’ve never even
been
to any of my reunions,” Angie reminded her.

Loretta gave her a look, as if that was another subject on which she might wish to voice an opinion. Angie suppressed a sigh. Her mother had an opinion on everything and the mouth to back it up. She was the Linda Richman character from
Saturday Night Live.
She even looked the part. Her hair was the same mink-brown bouffant as in her junior prom photo (dyed now), and she dressed like an extra on
Dynasty,
complete with shoulder pads only a fellow 1980s refugee would love, turquoise eye shadow and lipstick the bright red of a hazard sign. Oddly enough, it was one of the things Angie admired about her mother: In an ever-changing world, Loretta D’Amato remained unchanged. Not because she was unaware she was out of step but because she liked herself enough not to care what anyone else thought of the way she looked.

If anyone was changed, it was Francine. In high school, she was voted Most Likely to Succeed. But after graduating magna cum laude from Northwestern and getting her master’s in education, she got pregnant. She’d been working toward her PhD at the time, but couldn’t see herself becoming a single mom (abortion was out of the question), so she dropped out of the PhD program at Boston University and married her boyfriend Nick. Two years later, when Big Nick was offered the job of assistant coach at Hofstra, they bought a house in Massapequa. Big Nick was now head coach at Hofstra, and Francine taught fifth grade at the local middle school.

Now, after three kids, she’d lost her sparkle but not the twenty extra pounds she’d packed on with her last pregnancy. As a teenager, Francine never left the house looking anything less than MTV-worthy. She wore her hair in the Olivia Newton-John shag that was all the rage back then and was obsessive about her clothes and makeup; she and her friends would spend hours painting one another’s fingernails and toenails. Now she lived in mom jeans and T-shirts at home, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a manicure. She didn’t bother with her hair except to have the split-ends trimmed every so often, and who had time for makeup?

But if it wasn’t the life she’d envisioned when she was younger, she wasn’t unhappy. Francine might roll her eyes at what she called her husband’s dumb-jock ways or threaten to call Homeland Security when Little Nick and Bobby got into it, or sigh that she’d need a hip replacement from toting around a two-year-old at her “advanced” age, but there was no more devoted wife or mother. And she was still the same Francine in one respect—she was rigorously intellectual. She read voraciously. She subscribed to the
New Yorker
and rarely watched TV unless it was CNN. She kept her car radio tuned to NPR and belonged to a book club that focused on the classics.

While they ate, Francine talked about Little Nick’s making the lacrosse team at his school, the new tooth that baby Caitlin was cutting, and the upcoming presidential election. Loretta regaled them with more tales of the Alaskan cruise she and Angie’s dad had gone on (from which they’d returned with more photos of icebergs and ice floes than probably existed in the archives of
National Geographic
). Angie brought them up-to-date on the renovations on her new space, which were under way, and talked about the last night of her cooking class and how much she’d miss the kids.

“We made carrot cake,” she said.

“Ah, cake—I remember those days.” Francine sighed wistfully. “Nowadays you can’t bring so much as an M&M to school without the sugar nazis jumping down your throat. The rule at our school is, if you bring something for the whole class on your kid’s birthday, it has to be fruit or trail mix, preferably organic.” She made a face. “Please. Like a cupcake ever killed anyone.”

“If that were true, we’d all be dead by now. Right, Ma?” Angie grinned at Loretta. “There was enough Duncan Hines cake mix in our pantry to wipe out the entire population of Long Island.”

“We didn’t worry about such things when you girls were growing up,” said Loretta as she daintily brought a forkful of lasagna to her lips. “It was enough making sure everyone’s teeth were straight.”

“And that none of us got pregnant,” Francine said.

“Well, at least you got something out if it.” Their mother cast a pointed glance at Angie.

“Ma, don’t start,” Angie warned.

“What, did I say something?” Loretta feigned ignorance.

“No, but I know what you’re thinking. And it’s no use. You might as well face it. I’m a lost cause. I’m never getting married or having kids.”
Not if Camille Harte has anything to say about it
.

Minutes later, after their mother had excused herself to use the restroom, Francine leaned in to ask in a hushed voice, “So? What did he say?” Angie had told her about the email from Camille.

She sighed. “We didn’t get into it over the phone. I’m meeting him later on.”

“Do you think she gave him an ultimatum?”

Angie bit her lip and looked down. “I don’t know. All I know is I don’t want to lose him.”

Francine patted Angie’s hand. Initially, she’d warned against becoming involved with a married man. But once Angie explained the circumstances, Francine saw it wasn’t just a garden-variety affair. Also, she’d been through enough changeups in her own life to know you couldn’t always play it by the book. “Well, even if you have to stop seeing each other,” she said, “it’d only be for the time being. Not to sound coldhearted or anything, but the fact is, the woman is dying.”

Angie grimaced. “I don’t like to think about that.”

Francine nodded soberly. “Yeah, I know.” She shook her head. “God, I can’t imagine. Though if it were me, I probably wouldn’t care if Nick had an affair. I’d be glad he was getting some.”

“No, you wouldn’t. I know you—you’d cut off his balls and have them bronzed.”

“You’re right.” Francine gave a rueful chuckle. “I would.” She cast a look in the direction of the restrooms, as if to make sure Loretta wasn’t within earshot, before going on. “But from what you’ve told me, she wants him to be happy. Sure, she would have preferred it if he’d waited until after she was gone, but in the larger scheme of things, she got what she wanted. And, Ange, you deserve that, too—to be happy. Not to sound like Ma or anything, but you do.”

Angie sighed again. “The trouble is what
I
want will be at her expense if I get it. I can’t wish for that.”

Francine raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you start buying into all that Catholic guilt?”

“Since I started sleeping with a married man,” Angie said.

FORTY MINUTES LATER
she was walking into Lucky Jack’s, on Orchard Street. The bar was packed—she’d forgotten it was rugby night, when all the neighborhood ex-pats gathered to watch whatever game was being broadcast via satellite—but even so, she had no trouble spotting Edward amid the crowd. He was seated at one end of the long, copper-topped bar sipping a beer, dressed in faded jeans and an off-white Irish fisherman’s sweater. Her heart leaped, and she lingered a moment by the entrance, taking a mental snapshot for future reference—or perhaps as a memento. She loved looking at him—his beautiful face; the long, lean lines of his body. She loved how self-contained he was in repose, in his own little bubble surrounded by all those people, and that he took no notice of the shapely blonde seated on his left who was busy ignoring him but whose body language screamed
Yoo-hoo! This way! Over here!

What was he thinking right now?
Is he thinking about me?
He’d never told her he loved her, but she knew he did—he’d demonstrated it in countless ways. It wasn’t just about the sex, either. They talked on the phone whenever possible and never ran out of things to say to each other. When they were together, she cooked for him or they went to off-the-beaten-track eateries. He brought her little gifts—teas from the tea shop near where he worked, a bar of lavender soap because he knew she loved the smell of lavender, a stained-glass cardinal to hang in her window (after she’d complained that the birds of NYC only came in two colors: gray and brown). True, the time they spent together was made up of stolen moments and it was never enough. But could he bear to lose her any more than she could bear to lose him?

She threaded her way through the crowd. “Hey, you,” she breathed in his ear, sneaking up on him. He turned, breaking into a grin as she slid onto the stool next to his. “Sorry about that,” she said, jerking her chin in the direction of the mosh pit at the other end of the bar, where the TV was mounted. “I forgot it was rugby night. Do you want to go someplace quieter?”

“No, it’s okay. I can’t stay long,” he said.

Angie felt a stab of panic.
Not a good sign,
she thought. She watched the blonde slip off her stool and, with a regretful glance over her shoulder, begin winding her way toward the entrance. “Another one bites the dust,” she observed, gesturing toward the blonde. “When she saw you were taken, she looked at me like I’d stolen her lunch money. Poor thing. Guess she was hoping to get lucky.” Angie knew just how she felt. She, too, was hoping to get lucky, though not in quite the same way.

Edward shrugged. “I didn’t even see her.”

“That’s because you weren’t looking.”

She ordered a rum and Coke and exchanged pleasantries with the bartender Freddie. She and Edward didn’t engage in small talk. He just looked at her as she sipped her drink, and that was when she knew. “So, is this good-bye?” she said. “Is that why you wanted to see me?” She kept her voice light, but her heart was heavy. Not just her heart, her whole body—she felt drugged.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I see,” she said, struggling to maintain her composure. “Well, I can’t say it comes as a shock. Generally, when a wife finds out her husband is having an affair, it doesn’t bode well for the mistress.”

“It’s not just that,” he said. “Something’s come up.” His somber face grew more animated. “Remember when I told you about the experimental drug she was taking? The one she didn’t think would work? Well, it seems to be working.”

Angie was stunned. She could only stammer, “Wow. That’s . . . that’s . . .”

“Amazing. Yeah, I know.” A helpless smile spread across his face. “I admit I wasn’t too optimistic at first, either. I
hoped,
of course—you can never lose hope. But I knew it was a long shot.”

Angie didn’t know what to say. It was a moment before any coherent thought could form. “Well, that’s good news,” she said at last. “The
best
news. I’m happy for you both.” She meant it, truly she did. How could she not see it as a blessing that a life was being spared, that Camille’s children wouldn’t be left motherless?
Even if it’s the end of the line for me.
“Does that sound hopelessly insincere coming from the woman you’re sleeping with?”

“Not at all,” he said, and she knew he understood.

“Well, I guess this is it, then.” She struggled to keep the heartbreak from her voice.

His smile fell away. “Angie, I . . .”

“It’s the right thing to do. The
only
thing,” she went on, knowing what he was going to say and needing to be the first to say it. “Also, let’s face it, you’re not the cheating kind. You just took a left when you should’ve turned right, and I was the accident waiting to happen.”

Cheers erupted from the mosh pit as another goal was scored, and the rugby fans began rhythmically thumping on the bar with their fists. Angie could feel each thud in the pit of her stomach. Edward took her hand. “I can’t leave her,” he said. “Not after everything she’s been through.”

She nodded her head. “Of course not. She’s your wife.” Nor was it just that he couldn’t, in good conscience, abandon Camille. He loved her. They had a history together. She was the mother of his children.

Edward dropped his head into his hands, forking his fingers through his hair. If Angie hadn’t been so close to the breaking point herself, she’d have smiled at the picture he made. Like the old joke
So . . . a man walks into a bar . . .
Only this was no joke. This was the man she loved, probably the only man she’d ever love, and she was losing him. Worse, she couldn’t think of a reason why he should stay. He didn’t belong with her. He belonged with his wife and children.

When he lifted his head, she saw how conflicted he was. “Angie, if you only knew what these past few months have meant to me. How much
you
mean to me.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, as if at a loss for words. “You were the only thing that kept me from drowning.”

“Glad to be of service,” she said in a wry voice that came out sounding bitter.

“You know I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, wearing a pained look.

“Just how
did
you mean it?” she asked. She longed to hear him say the words
I love you,
even knowing it would only cause her more pain. But he only shook his head with regret.

“I can’t walk out on her. Not now. I owe her that much.”

The selfish part of Angie wanted to cry
, What about what you owe ME?
But she knew the answer: He owed her nothing. She’d entered into this with her eyes wide open, a relationship her mother . . . and the shrink she’d need after this . . . hell, any random person on the street . . . would have warned her to run from as if from a burning building. The irony was, even if he’d chosen her over Camille, it wouldn’t have worked. Because then he wouldn’t be the man she loved.
That
man would never leave his wife after she’d been brought back from the brink of death.

She finished her drink and pushed aside the empty glass. “In that case, I wish you well. Truly. You deserve it after what you’ve been through. But right now, I’m going home, where I can get drunk in peace and throw myself the mother of all pity parties. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”