The Replacement Wife (30 page)

Angie felt a stab of jealousy, thinking,
Of course
. He probably had legions of women secretly lusting after him. Many of whom would glom on to him when he was a widower like fat ladies flocking to the dessert table at a buffet. Women no doubt far more suitable in every way than she was.

It took every ounce of effort to stay focused as she bustled about. She and her crew got out the next two courses and had just finished plating the dessert—
panna cotta
with pomegranate syrup, and lemon shortbread stamped with the newlyweds’ initials—when the band struck up. Angie was passing by Edward and Camille’s table when she saw him lean in and murmur in his wife’s ear, as if asking her to dance. Camille smiled and shook her head, and though he appeared to take it in stride, Angie didn’t miss the look of disappointment that flashed across his face. He turned back to his seatmate, the pretty brunette with whom he’d been chatting earlier.

She didn’t see Camille again until they ran into each other a few minutes later as she was stepping out the back door, carrying a loaded tray. Camille was on her way in to use the restroom. “Want me to hold your plate until you get back?” Angie offered after they’d exchanged greetings.

“Thanks, but I’m going to have to skip dessert,” Camille told her. “I don’t think I could squeeze in another bite. Everything was delicious, by the way. You really outdid yourself.”

Angie felt her cheeks warm. Did Camille suspect anything? But what was there to suspect, after all? She’d done nothing wrong. “Thanks,” she murmured. “You look nice, by the way.” Camille was a bit paler than usual and much too thin, but she looked more ethereal than deathly.

“Do I?” Camille smiled, her gaze turning inward. “Well, maybe there’s something to be said for tilting at windmills.”

Angie didn’t know what to make of the cryptic remark.

She took advantage of the lull, after the desserts had gone out, to steal away for a quick break. Earlier, she’d spied a secluded patio off the breakfast nook. Sheltered by latticework covered in climbing vines, it looked out on a small garden with a pond at the center. She was relieved, when she pushed open the glass door onto the patio, to see that no one else had discovered it. There was only the cat curled up, asleep, one of the rattan chairs and the koi swimming in the pond.

She stretched out on the chaise. It was sheer bliss to be off her aching feet, the sun on her face. The only sounds were the droning of bees and, farther off in the distance, that of toasts being made to the newlyweds inside the tent, accompanied by enthusiastic applause and whistles. Then the band struck up again—a familiar tune that soon had her humming along. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift, picturing herself gliding over the dance floor in Edward’s arms.

“THIS TIME, I’M
not taking no for answer,” Edward told his wife as he pulled her to her feet and onto the dance floor.

Camille had begged off before, but now she smiled and moved into the circle of his arms. As they waltzed to the music, he thought of all the times through the years they’d danced together like this. It felt so familiar . . . and at the same time like something he’d forgotten he knew how to do, like the games he played with his children—Wiffle ball and badminton—that he hadn’t played since he himself was a child. Would they ever find their way back to where they’d started? Two people, young and in love, who’d wouldn’t have let anything or anyone come between them.

“It’s been a while since we’ve done this,” she murmured, as if picking up on his thoughts.

“Too long,” he said, pulling her closer.

“What were you thinking of just now?”

“Our wedding day.” He smiled into her hair.

“It was nothing like this one, that’s for sure. Talk about low budget. If it weren’t for my sister, we’d have been dancing to that old boom box of yours instead of the free band she scraped up.”

“Well, it was memorable, at least.”

“In more ways than one. Remember when my friend Annabel got stung by that bee? I was getting ready to walk down the aisle, and she was yelling for a doctor.” Camille chuckled at the memory, though it hadn’t been so amusing at the time, Edward recalled. Annabel was allergic, it turned out, and if his friend and fellow intern Phil Terzian hadn’t had his black bag in the trunk of his car, she might have died. “I still think the outdoors is more romantic than a church, but you
do
have the insects to consider. All in all, though, I’d have to say it was the perfect wedding.”

“Way better than a banquet hall at the Ritz,” he agreed.

“Yes, though this is nice. The only thing that really matters is if you’re happy.” Her gaze strayed to the newlyweds, who glided past just then, their eyes locked on each other’s as they moved over the dance floor in perfect unison. His throat tightened, and tears rose once more. He bit back the words he didn’t dare voice.
Remember when we used to look at each other like that?

When the dance ended and another one began, she said, “I think I’d better sit this one out.”

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked as they headed back to their table.

“I’m just a bit tired, is all,” she said. “Why don’t you ask Elise to dance?”

Edward felt a flash of annoyance. If Elise wasn’t within earshot, he would have made up some excuse. But he didn’t want to be rude, so he turned to Elise and smiled. “May I have this dance?”

She nodded, and together they moved onto the dance floor. As he took her in his arms, he was struck by how robust she seemed, slender though she was, with her firm flesh and rosy cheeks—the picture of health. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Camille watching them, wearing a bright, fixed smile. It made him clumsy all of a sudden. “Sorry I’m such a klutz. I’m a little out of practice,” he apologized after he’d stepped on Elise’s toes.

“You’re doing just fine,” she told him, trying not to wince.

He drew back to eye her bemusedly. “Are you always this polite?”

She laughed. “I can’t help it. I’m from the Midwest.”

“You put me to shame,” he said after another spin around the dance floor, during which he was as clumsy as she was light on her feet, though he did manage not to step on her toes again.

“My parents made me take lessons,” she told him. “I was thirteen, and they must’ve thought it was the only way I’d ever get a boy to dance with me.” He drew back to cock an eyebrow at her, finding it hard to believe the lovely Elise had ever had trouble getting boys to dance with her, and she confided, “In seventh grade, I was a head taller than the tallest boy in my class, which doesn’t do much for a girl’s popularity. Every school dance, I’d come home crying.”

“You should’ve seen me when I was that age,” he said. “I was over six feet by the time I turned thirteen. The other kids nicknamed me Stork. You and I would have made a good couple.”

He saw her cheeks color, and immediately regretted his ill-considered words.

When the dance ended, he escorted her back to her seat. One of the servers, the light-skinned black girl he recognized from the meet-and-greet, was clearing the table, and he thought of Angie. He’d spotted her earlier but hadn’t had a chance to say hello. Now might be a good time. He excused himself, ignoring the questioning look Camille darted him, and headed for the house.

“THERE YOU ARE.
I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Angie gave a guilty start, embarrassed to have been caught napping on the job, and then thought,
I know that voice
. She turned, registering Edward’s presence as he stepped onto the patio. No, not a dream—here in the flesh. She broke into a grin. “I’m taking a cigarette break,” she told him.

“I didn’t know you were a smoker,” he said.

“I’m not, but I figure I’m entitled to the same perks. Ever notice how no one ever questions it when someone slips out back for a quick smoke? If you totaled up all those five-minute breaks, it’d come to a week’s vacation. Me? I’m lucky if I get five seconds to myself.” He smiled as he lowered himself into the rattan chair opposite her, which creaked agreeably with his weight. “In my line of work, you’ve got to be on your toes every minute. Because it’s always something—an oven on the fritz or a delivery that got waylaid, or someone got careless with a knife and needs stitches. Today one of my staffers called in sick at the last minute, so I was left shorthanded. Remember Tamika, from my cooking class? I hired her to fill in. But she’s new, so there’s a learning curve.” Angie was aware she was babbling, using words to construct a not-so-solid wall between her and Edward, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “What about you? What are you doing hanging out with the hired help when you ought to be dancing with your wife?”

His smile faded. “She wasn’t feeling up to it—she’s still a little under the weather.”

Angie wasn’t quite sure how to respond. What do you say to a man whose wife is dying?
Cheer up! She’ll be back on her feet soon!
“I ran into her earlier,” she said. “She looked good for someone who just got out of the hospital. In fact, I was surprised when you told me you were coming. I didn’t think she’d be up to it. But that’s Camille for you—she’s a trooper.”

“I don’t think she knows how to slow down.” He smiled thinly.

“She said something about tilting at windmills. Do you know what she meant by that?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “No, but I have a pretty good guess.” He explained that Camille’s doctor had just started her on an experimental drug. “It’s totally untested, so we don’t know what to expect.”

“Sounds hopeful,” Angie replied guardedly, not sure if a show of enthusiasm was called for. All she knew about experimental drugs was what she’d picked up watching doctor shows on TV. In real life, it was probably different. Not everyone got cured in the space of an hour’s viewing time.

“I think so, but Camille sees it as . . . well, apparently, just another windmill to tilt at.” His expression clouded over.

“But if it works, that’s all that matters, right?”

“Sure. I just wish she had a little more faith.”

“Either way, it won’t change the outcome.” Angie reached to pet the cat, a marmalade tom, which had relinquished its chair to Edward and settled onto the chaise. “I was raised Catholic, and when I was a kid I used to pray for stuff. My mom told me it didn’t work that way, that prayers weren’t like a Christmas wish list, but it wasn’t until I was older that I realized she was right—it’s all pretty random. Not that I stopped believing in God; I just don’t see Him as a Santa in the sky. Either you’ll get what you want or you won’t. All you can do is hope for the best.”

“This isn’t like the battery-operated car I wanted when I was ten,” he said dryly.

“No,” she acknowledged with a somber nod. “By the way, did you ever get that car?”

“Yeah,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting in an ironic smile. “Minus the batteries.”

They were quiet for a minute, gazing out at the pond where koi swirled and darted like handfuls of tossed confetti. “So, does this mean the deal’s off?” Angie ventured at last.

“What deal?” He brought his gaze back to her.

“You know. With the schoolteacher.”

“Oh, that.” Edward sighed. She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t she employed a trick that had always served her well, as the youngest of five sisters who were immune to being out-shouted: She stared at him with one eyebrow arched, until he finally divulged, “She’s having us over for dinner next weekend.” As if that answered the question, which she supposed it did.

“I see,” she said. “So even though her services may no longer be required, you’re keeping her around just in case?”

“It’s not like that,” he said, frowning.

“And just what
is
it like?”

“Elise is . . . a family friend.”

“Oh, so she’s a ‘family friend’ after just one weekend? Fast work on her part.” A nasty edge crept into her voice.

“You make it sound calculated. But if you met her, you’d see she isn’t like that. She’s a nice person.”

Angie felt a stab of jealousy. “A nice person who just so happens to have designs on a married man.”
Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?
whispered a voice in her head. She herself didn’t have designs on Edward, at least, not the kind that involved a ring on her finger and silver and china patterns registered at Bloomingdale’s, but the fantasies she’d been having about him (her favorite was the one in which they reenacted the scene in
The Postman Always Rings Twice
where Lana Turner is ravaged on the kitchen table like an all-you-can-eat buffet) hardly qualified her for sainthood, either.

His frown deepened. “You’ve got the wrong idea,” he insisted.

“Why don’t you explain it to me, then?”

His shoulders sagged. “All I know is, Camille wants this, and I’m not going to deny her. If it gives her comfort to go on believing her family won’t be left high and dry when—if—she’s gone, then I don’t see the harm. She doesn’t have to know I have no intention of ever marrying Elise.”

Angie grew very still. So still, there was only the beating of her heart, which seemed to fill her entire body. “You don’t?” she squeaked.

“No,” he said. “I like her a lot, but we’ll never be more than friends.”

Angie felt a heady rush of relief. Though it didn’t change anything as far as she was concerned. She thought:
Is that how he sees me, too—as someone who could never be more than a friend?
“When did you know?” she asked.

“I think I knew all along, but it wasn’t until today that it hit me. When I was dancing with her. There I was, a beautiful woman in my arms, one I happen to be fond of, and I felt . . . nothing.”

Angie eyed him in confusion. “You mean she’s
here
?”

He nodded. “She and the bride are old friends—she’s one of the bridesmaids.”

No doubt the same one Angie had seen him chatting with earlier.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .
“And have you told Elise she shouldn’t get her hopes up?” she asked, her jealousy of a moment ago turning to sympathy. She and the schoolteacher were in the same boat.