The Replacement Wife (7 page)

“Holly,” he mused aloud. “Don’t tell me. She was named after—”

“Holly Golightly.” Camille broke into a grin. “Good guess.”

Edward scooted his chair in to keep from getting poked by the very large purse of the woman seated behind him, bringing himself into even closer contact with Camille. He was hyperaware of her presence across from him; the narrow space between them seemed charged with ions. “Is she anything like the fictional Holly?” he asked in what he hoped was a normal voice.

Camille rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the way her expression softened. “Believe me, she gives new meaning to the term
free spirit.
”

“In other words, she’s nothing like you,” he teased.

Camille swatted him with her napkin. “Bite your tongue. Just because I happen to care about my allegedly suicidal roommate, it doesn’t make me the super-responsible type.” A tiny smile surfaced. “Well, maybe a little. But I come by it honestly. Holly was a handful, let me tell you. She still is.”

“How so?” he asked, inching his chair in a little closer.

“Well, for one thing, she practically lives with her boyfriend. Which might not seem so unusual, except that she’s only seventeen and he’s ten years older.” At the expression he must have worn, she went on, “I know. Jailbait. But that’s Holly for you. Or maybe it says more about my dad. You’d think he’d check up on her once in a while—officially, she stays with her best friend when he’s out of town—but with him, it’s out of sight, out of mind.”

“Wow.” Edward didn’t know what to say to that.

“You know what she used to do when she was younger? Crash bar mitzvahs. Seriously.” Tavern on the Green, back when it was a happening enterprise, was only a few blocks from where they lived, she explained, and there was always at least one bar or bat mitzvah on any given Saturday. “She figured no one would notice one more kid. I thought it was strange that she got so many invitations, but I figured there must be a lot of Jewish kids in her class. She got away with it, too. For a whole year. Until one of the moms smoked her out. When I confronted her, she just shrugged and said, ‘It was something to do.’ That’s my sister for you, in a nutshell.”

He chuckled. “A career criminal in the making.”

Camille laughed and pushed her hands through her hair, which caught the light and his breath along with it, spilling through her fingers to fan across her back. “You joke,” she said. “But it’s a fact. Truancy, underage drinking, sneaking out at night, you name it, Holly’s done it.”

“I’m sure she’ll straighten out in time. She’s still young.”

“I suppose.” Camille sighed, slumped over her plate with her elbows propped on the table as she stared into the distance, lost in thought. Then she straightened suddenly, bringing her gaze back to him and saying in an exasperated voice, “Listen to me. I’m twenty and I sound like a worried mom. Between Holly and my stupid roommate, it’s a wonder I have a life.”

“You can’t help it if you’re the super-responsible type,” he teased.

They both laughed. The woman behind him, with the purse, turned around to stare at them, which only made Camille laugh harder, covering her mouth with her hands to stifle her giggles.

Edward wanted to lean in and kiss her, then and there. Lick the dab of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth and run the tip of his tongue over her sweetly parted lips. It shocked him, how close he came to doing just that. He had never felt so strongly about a girl.

The following Saturday, he used his meager savings to take her to dinner at an Italian restaurant in the Village. Afterward, they went back to her dorm room at NYU. Her roommate was out with her boyfriend, so they had it to themselves. Before she’d even switched on the lights, they were in each other’s arms. They kissed, and then she took his hand and led him to her bed.

They lay together on the mattress, kissing and touching each other for the longest time without taking their clothes off. But if she was going slow, it wasn’t out of shyness. She wanted to make each moment last, she told him. They weren’t just making love, they were making memories.

Edward was in no hurry, either. All week, he’d been at a fever pitch imagining this: Camille naked in his arms. He wanted to savor each moment. He’d been with other girls—three, to be exact—but Camille, unlike his previous girlfriends, needed no guidance when it came to what to do with her hands and mouth. It quickly became obvious, somewhat to his consternation, that despite his being several years older, she was the more experienced.

“You’ve never done this before? Seriously?” she asked when he hesitated to go down on her.

“Once,” he confessed. “She didn’t like it.”

“I promise I’ll like it,” Camille purred, urging him lower.

Listening to her moans of pleasure as he brought her to climax, he thought no sound could be sweeter. Afterward, he fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for the condom he kept in his wallet. He always found this part awkward, and to make matters worse his fingers weren’t cooperating for some reason. He felt like a bumbling teenager. Once again, it was Camille who took charge, pulling the foil packet from his hand and tearing it open in a single, deft move. When he finally entered her, he could barely contain himself. If she hadn’t been equally impatient, he wouldn’t have been able to hold back long enough to bring her to climax a second time.

“That,” she murmured, “was amazing.” She eased out from under him and rolled onto her side, propping her head on her elbow. She grinned at him in the darkness, her face inches from his.

“Better than with your other lovers?” He couldn’t resist.

“Yes. But to be a hundred percent sure, I think we should review the material one more time,” she replied in a mock studious voice. She wriggled in closer, and they began kissing again. He wouldn’t have thought it humanly possible, but within seconds he felt himself stir in response.

She climbed on top, and they rocked together. She gave herself over to him with abandon, her head thrown back, exposing the smooth, white column of her throat, her bright hair spilling over her shoulders and back. The exquisite pleasure mounted with each thrust, and he felt the last vestiges of control slip away. When they finally collapsed, trembling, their bodies slick with sweat, he felt as if he’d arrived at a destination to which he hadn’t known he was headed.

NOW, ALL THESE
years later, he looked at his wife, lying still and pale beside him. Panic rose in him.
What if I were to lose her?
It was like trying to imagine a world without the sun or moon. Had he been a man of faith he’d have railed at God. Why
her
? What had she done to deserve this? Hadn’t she—they—suffered enough? To make matters worse, she was already thinking ahead to a future that didn’t include her. Christ. As if they didn’t have enough to deal with.

“I don’t want anyone but you,” he told her.

She eyed him mournfully. “I know. But I might not always be here.”

He felt his chest constrict. “Don’t say that.”

“I hate this as much as you do,” she went on, her voice shaky. “But we have to face the fact that in all likelihood you’ll outlive me. I’d feel better knowing you wouldn’t be facing the future alone.”

“I wouldn’t be alone. I’d have the kids.”

“I’m thinking of them, too. I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

“They’d still have me,” he choked out.

“Yes, but you’ll need someone to help look after them.” She was putting it delicately, he knew. The implication hung heavy in the air: He had already proven woefully inadequate in that area.

“No one could replace you,” he insisted. Jesus. Why were they even discussing this?

“I know,” she said, wiping away the tear rolling down her cheek. “I felt the same way when my mom died. But you know what? It would’ve been better for Holly and me if our dad had remarried.”

“I’m not your dad,” he said, though deep down he suspected he and his father-in-law had more in common than he cared to admit. “I wouldn’t just leave my children to fend for themselves.”

“
Our
children.” She placed a hand against his cheek. “Don’t I get a say in it, too?”

He shook his head. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Even if it was my dying wish?” It was what she always said in jest whenever they disagreed on anything, but hearing it now was like a shot through the heart. He winced.

“You’re not dying,” he said.
I won’t let you
.

The tears were flowing faster now, rolling down her cheeks to drip off her chin; she no longer bothered to wipe them away. “Oh, Edward. Don’t you see? I only want you to be happy.”

“How could I be happy without you?” His mouth contorted, and he felt the hot sting of tears. He breathed in and out, slowly and deliberately, until he’d regained a measure of composure.

“You feel that way now, but you won’t always. I know. I see it every day. Remember Manny Horowitz?” She named a former client whose wedding they’d attended several years ago. Manny’s first wife had died shortly before their fiftieth anniversary and, after an extended period of mourning, Camille had introduced him to the woman who became his second wife. “He didn’t think he could ever love again. He only wanted companionship. Then he met Corinne.”

“I don’t need some random woman to keep me company in my old age,” he growled.

“It wasn’t like that with Manny,” she told him. “He fell in love again. So, you see, it’s possible.”

If anything was possible, didn’t that also hold true for her chances of recovery? he thought. “I’m not giving up on you just yet,” he said, using a corner of the sheet to wipe away her tears.

“Oh, Edward.” She looked so woebegone, his heart broke a little more.

He gathered her in his arms. “I love you,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I know,” she whispered in return. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

“Okay, no promises. Just keep an open mind, okay?”

Edward thought of all the times they’d clung to each other like this, giving each other solace when the going got rough. Often it had led to their making love. But cancer had robbed them of that, too. What the past year’s ordeal had taught him was that love and desire weren’t inextricably bound; one didn’t necessarily ebb with the other. His love for Camille was different than before—he felt more protective of her than anything—but no less strong. If that meant humoring her until she regained her natural sense of optimism, he supposed there was no harm in it.

“I’ll try,” he said with a sigh.

CHAPTER FOUR

G
rowing up, Camille and her sister had amused themselves during their father’s long absences by playing word games like Twenty Questions and I Spy. Their all-time favorite was Would You Rather. Would you rather be beautiful but brainless, or the smartest person in the world with an ugly face? Swallow a live cockroach, or kiss a boy with food stuck in his braces? Be stranded on a desert island, or swim through shark-infested waters? If you had only six months to live, would you spend it in the arms of Robert Redford, or doing good works like Mother Teresa?

The last one, posed by Holly, had been a real head-scratcher. Camille was sure she’d win more points toward heaven doing good works. On the other hand, if the hottest guy on the planet were crazy enough to take on a dying girl . . .

This was how it went in reality: In the morning, you got up and fixed breakfast, then got your kids off to school. At work, you put on a smiling face. And maybe at some point in the midst of your hectic day, if you weren’t too swamped, you had a few minutes to yourself in which to wallow in self-pity before it was time to go home and get supper ready. In short, life went on.

She met with clients. She balanced her checkbook. She went grocery shopping (though now it was with a sense of irony that she checked expiration dates). She planned her son’s birthday party. She got her hair cut (only giving a cryptic smile in response when her stylist asked if she’d consider coloring it, after finding a gray hair). The difference was, she was keenly aware of the passage of time. Before, the days and weeks would slide one into the next; she’d never given much thought to their being in ever-dwindling supply, which she now saw as a shocking waste. These days, whenever Zach said something that made her laugh or Kyra doled out one of her rare hugs, she savored it like hard candy dissolving slowly on her tongue. She’d recall what her own mother used to say to her, when giving out her weekly allowance:
This is all you’re getting, so spend it wisely.
Back then, it was dimes and quarters; now it was minutes and hours.

The morning of Zach’s birthday, she phoned her husband at work to remind him to pick up the cake at the bakery on his way to the all-boy party at Chelsea Piers. When Edward showed up several hours later, after the six boys had worn themselves out in the batting cages and were digging in to the pizza she’d had delivered, her heart sank when she saw he was empty-handed.

“You forgot.” She stared at him in disbelief.

He paused, giving her a blank look, then grimaced. “The cake. Damn.” His expression turned contrite as he continued toward her. “I’m sorry, Cam. There was so much going on at work . . .”

Like
I
don’t have a lot going on, too?
But she didn’t voice her frustration; she only sighed.

“I’ll run back and get it,” he said.

“Never mind,” she told him, her voice weary. “By the time you made it back, it’d be too late.” The bakery was all the way up on West Seventy-Ninth Street, easily a forty-minute round trip.

Edward flashed a guilty look at their son, who at the moment was too busy chowing down with his friends to notice either his father’s presence or the absence of the cake. The boys all had red clown mouths and cheese dripping from their chins. Then Zach spotted his dad and came charging over.

“Hey, Dad! Guess what? I hit more balls than anyone!”

Edward grinned and ruffled Zach’s hair. “Way to go, slugger. Sorry I wasn’t here to see it.” He grabbed a wad of napkins and handed it to Zach, who gave his stained mouth a cursory swipe.