The Replacement Wife (44 page)

She slipped off the stool, but her knees buckled when her feet hit the floor. He jumped up to catch her before she fell. He held her steady, his hands gripping her upper arms, his gaze locked onto hers. The noise at the other end of the bar faded to a hum. In that moment, it was just the two of them: two people who had found each other and who now had to find their way apart.

“At least, let me take you home,” he said, as if he thought she’d had too much to drink already.

“No, I’m fine.” It was far from true—she wasn’t anything close to fine;
fine
wasn’t even a word in her dictionary—but saying it was one step toward making it so. “I’ll catch a cab.”

They were forced into even closer proximity when a heavyset man carrying a stein of beer in each hand muscled his way past them. Angie could feel the heat of Edward’s body and smell his scent, which brought to mind the showers they’d taken together and sheets warmed by their lovemaking. He was so close, she could have slipped into his arms as easily as taking the next breath. She closed her eyes a moment, savoring his nearness, before taking a step back. She heard a muttered a curse as she bumped into someone behind her. Then she was pushing her way toward the entrance, her head down, not looking to see who else she might be about to plow into.

Outside, she gulped in air like a drowning person who’d been washed ashore. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see that Edward had followed her, but the only other person in sight, besides the smokers huddled by the entrance, was a homeless man shuffling along the sidewalk pushing a grocery cart piled with his worldly possessions. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. She was at the corner, about to climb into a cab, when Edward emerged into view. “Angie, wait!” he called, waving to get her attention as he dashed toward her.

She paused, keeping a hand on the open door of the cab so the driver wouldn’t think she’d changed her mind. She recalled her friend Marie once remarking, on a night like this after she’d spent twenty minutes trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab, that taxis were almost as hard to come by at this hour in this part of town as a good man. If Angie couldn’t have one, she’d take the other.

She touched his arm when he caught up to her. “Go home, Edward. Go home to your wife and kids.” She ducked into the backseat and pulled the door shut. She didn’t look back as the cab sped away. If she had, she’d have seen a figure standing on the curb, looking as forlorn as she.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I
t was twelve-thirty P.M., the third Tuesday in October, and Edward had just seen the last of his morning patients out the door. His receptionist buzzed him. “Your wife is here,” Rosie informed him. He frowned in confusion. Did he have a lunch date with Camille? If so, he couldn’t recall making it. It must have slipped his mind. No surprise there—he’d been so preoccupied lately it was a wonder he managed to keep anything straight.

Camille breezed in moments later, bringing with her the scent of the outdoors: fallen leaves and damp sidewalks. She was still too thin, but she’d recently put on a few pounds and there was some color in her cheeks. Most notably, the air of sad resignation she’d worn was gone.

“I called earlier, and Rosie said you had some time before your next appointment, so I thought I’d take you to lunch,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. “And here I was feeling like the world’s worst husband for forgetting we had a date.”

“You’re not. I wanted to surprise you.” She smiled, adjusting the knot on his tie, one of those small wifely gestures that would have gone unnoticed in the past but which brought a lump to his throat now.

“Best offer I’ve had all day.” He grinned, but it felt practiced somehow.

Her smile faded, and a flicker of anxiety crossed her face. “You don’t have other plans?”

“Nope,” he said. “I’m all yours.”

Rosie waved good-bye as they passed by the front desk on the way to the elevators. A plump, older woman with white hair like spun glass, she had a weakness for holiday-themed sweaters like the one she was wearing—black and orange with a jack-o’-lantern motif—and the Reese’s Pieces she kept in a locked drawer in her desk at all times. “You kids have fun!” she called.

Camille looked to Edward, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Kids. How long since anyone called us that? God, it’s been ages. But you know something, I feel like a kid right now.”

Edward squeezed her arm. “You look like one.”

“So do you—you look very handsome. Just remember: Handsome is as handsome does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

Edward hailed a cab at the corner of Broadway and Fort Washington Avenue, and fifteen minutes later they were pulling up in front of the Hotel Wales, on Madison Avenue near Ninety-Second Street. “I thought you were taking me to lunch,” he said as they stepped through the glass door into the lobby. The Hotel Wales, like most of the city’s boutique hotels, didn’t have a restaurant on the premises.

“You’ve never heard of room service?” she replied with an arch look.

“You booked us a room?” he asked in surprise.

She nodded, looking pleased with herself, then leaned in to whisper, “They have day rates.”

Edward felt himself start to tense up. There was a time when nothing would have thrilled him more than the prospect of an afternoon delight with his wife, but they hadn’t had sex in so long. And so much had happened. An image rose in his mind: Angie naked on the big chocolate sofa in her living room, her eyelids lowered seductively and her mouth curled in a come-hither smile.

Until recently, his fantasies had revolved almost exclusively around his wife. Even after she became ill, when their lovemaking was less frequent, it was Camille he thought of when he masturbated or when he lay in bed at night unable to sleep, aching for the touch of her hand on his thigh. It wasn’t until he met Angie that he realized how starved he was. Not just for sex, but for the kind of intimacy he’d shared with his wife. And he’d taken what Angie had to give, God help him, yes, he had. Seized it with his teeth and both fists, and still he hadn’t been able to get enough.

Now here was Camille, wanting to recapture what was lost.

When they got to their room, he saw that the stage had been set: a bottle of champagne on ice, a plate of sandwiches, and one of strawberries dipped in chocolate. A vase of red roses stood on the dresser. Camille had planned it carefully, down to the last detail. Now it was his turn to step up.

He took her in his arms and kissed her. “This beats a restaurant any day.”

“I booked the room under Mr. and Mrs., but the desk clerk gave me a funny look,” she said. “I don’t imagine too many old, married couples ask about day rates.” Camille put her arms around his waist, and he drew her in so her head rested on his chest. Her familiar scent was balm to his frayed nerves. She was so thin, she felt almost weightless; but at the same time, she anchored him. She was just tall enough so the top of her head was level with his chin, unlike Angie, who was so petite, she had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him. He closed his eyes, willing away the persistent images of Angie.
You got your wish,
a voice whispered in his head.
This is what you wanted.

They undressed and climbed under the covers. They were tentative with each other at first, then Camille gradually began to respond to his touch and the gentle pressure of his lips. He kissed her all over, each kiss a period at the end of a sentence.
I can. I will. I must.
Camille might know . . . or guess . . . that he still harbored feelings for Angie. But they must never speak of it.

She took him in her mouth. He shut his eyes and struggled to shut his mind against the memory of a different mouth, its featherlight tongue unlike the one teasing him now. It taunted him, and the moments passed in a kind of holographic warp, images and remembered sensations shifting in and out of what he could feel and taste and touch. He shuddered, on the verge of climax.

Then he was inside her, and it was as though nothing had changed: all the familiar moves and rhythms he knew by heart; the way she gripped his buttocks as she was building toward her own climax; the way the arches of her feet pressed into his ankles; the sweet little noises she made—all things that held him in the present and at the same time were but echoes of the past.

Afterward, as they lay curled together, he wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was: that the last time he’d lain like this had been with Angie. If so, she didn’t speak of it or allude to it. Nor did she whisper endearments. She was wise enough to know it was best to say nothing. Finally, she stirred and said, “And here you were expecting lunch. You must be famished.”

He smiled. “Utterly. If your aim was to have me work up an appetite, you’ve succeeded.”

She sat up, pulling on the complimentary robe that had come with the room. “Why don’t you do the honors while I go wash up,” she said, nodding toward the bottle of champagne in its bucket.

Their easy banter was familiar ground, but here they treaded cautiously as well. Was this a fresh start or only a trip down memory lane? Was it possible to start over after all they’d been through?
Easy, boy,
he told himself,
one step at a time
. He got up and uncorked the champagne.

But as he toasted the future with his wife, his thoughts were with another.

CAMILLE ARRIVED HOME
to find a message from her father on the answering machine. Typical, she thought. Anyone else would’ve called her on her cell, but Larry relied on landlines the way he once had on the navigational system by which he’d piloted planes. The year before, Holly had talked him into getting a cell phone, which he’d used exactly one time, as far as Camille knew—to inform Holly of said purchase and congratulate himself on the wisdom of it—before relegating it to his sock drawer. The only time it saw the light of day was when he took it with him on trips.

This time, she didn’t delay in calling him back. Her father had his faults, but he
was
trying; she’d give him that. After she’d shared her good news with him, he hadn’t retreated into the woodwork as she’d expected him to. He continued to make an effort. And although his efforts were often clumsy or clueless, she appreciated that he was, at least, present and accounted for.

“Hi, Dad. Is this a bad time?” she asked when he picked up after five rings.

“No, not at all. I was just . . . um, taking out the trash.”

Immediately, she became suspicious. He sounded out of breath, and since when did taking out the trash constitute a marathon? Did he have some health problem he was keeping from her? She recalled that Grandpa Harte hadn’t been much older than her dad when he died of a stroke.

“You okay, Dad?” she asked.

“Me? Never better,” he said, a bit too heartily. “More importantly, how are
you
?”

“I’m good,” she said, thinking how wonderful it was to be able to say it and have it be true.

“Are you eating? Getting enough rest?”

As if she were pregnant or recovering from the flu. But she smiled and answered dutifully, “Yes, Dad. I’m getting my eight hours and eating my peas and carrots.” His awkward attempts at parenting no longer irritated her. She recalled his reaction when she’d called with the news that her cancer was in remission. She would never forget the sound of her father, who’d kept a stoic front even at his wife’s funeral, weeping at the other end of the phone. “Is that why you called, to see how I was doing, or was there some other reason?” she asked, not unkindly.

He hesitated, clearing his throat. “Yes, well . . . I, um, have something to tell you. Are you sitting down?” Camille braced herself as she ran through the list in her mind of what she thought of as old people diseases: congestive heart failure, arteriolosclerosis, osteoporosis, prostate cancer. She didn’t stop to consider that it might not be his health, that it might in fact be
good
news (depending on one’s viewpoint), so when he dropped his bombshell, she was totally unprepared. “Remember when you asked if I’d ever thought about getting married again and I told you it wasn’t in the cards?” he said. “Well, it turns out I was wrong: Your old man is taking the plunge.”

“Seriously? This isn’t a joke?” she said when she’d recovered her wits. Had he been a client of hers, she’d have been congratulating him. Instead, she could only wonder who this impostor was and if the aliens who’d abducted her real father would be releasing him anytime soon.

“If it is, the joke’s on me.” Larry gave a low chuckle, sounding a bit abashed. “I didn’t see it coming. But I guess these things have a way of sneaking up on you.”

“That’s, um . . . well . . . Congratulations, Dad,” she finally managed. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Her name’s Lillian. Lillian Dessler.” Larry filled her in on the pertinent details. Lillian was a widow, originally from Boston. She’d lost her husband four years ago, to colon cancer. She had two grown daughters, one of whom was a nurse and the other a stay-at-home mom, and six grandchildren. “She’s a great gal—you’ll love her. She can’t wait to meet you and your sister.”

Instead of summoning a gracious response, Camille found herself asking bluntly, “You’re sure you’re not jumping the gun, Dad? It doesn’t sound as if you’ve known her very long.” Lillian had moved to Heritage Acres, into a unit down the hall from his, only six months ago.

“At my age, there’s no time to waste. I’m not getting any younger, you know,” he reminded her. She heard a noise in the background—it sounded like the shower cranking on—and suddenly she understood why he’d been out of breath earlier.
They were having sex.
Oh, God. She almost choked at the realization. She had older clients and firmly believed in love the second or even third time around, but it was different when it was your father. It also underscored her own loneliness. Today’s romantic interlude with Edward had been lovely but not all that she’d hoped it would be. He’d made a sincere effort, but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it.