The Replacement Wife (32 page)

“Maybe she’s finally ready to settle down,” Larry said hopefully.

“I wouldn’t rule it out.” As a matchmaker, Camille had seen it time and again. People who broke their pattern of entering into bad relationships (usually because of some seminal event, such as a death in the family or, in Holly’s case, an unexpected pregnancy) and found true love at last. “While it’s true that a leopard doesn’t change its spots, it can always find new hunting grounds.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Larry looked up at her, a carrot in one hand and the peeler in the other, a curly strip of peel dangling from its tip. From the nervous look he wore, it was obvious something was weighing on his mind, but typical of him, he was going to make her dig for it.

Swallowing her impatience, she asked evenly, “What is it, Dad?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just . . .” He cleared his throat and began again. “I want you to know I’ve thought a lot about what you said the last time, and I’ve decided . . . well, the thing of it is . . .” He trailed off, color rising in his cheeks beneath his golfer’s tan. He put the peeler down and reached for his drink, taking a fortifying gulp, the sound of the ice rattling in the glass loud in the stillness. When she just stood there, silently waiting for him to go on, he cried, “Damn it, Cammie, you don’t make it easy! I always feel like I’m saying the wrong thing with you.”

“As opposed to ignoring me, you mean?” she replied coolly.

He dropped his gaze, staring fixedly at the polished granite countertop, where his hazy reflection stood out like a spot she’d missed when wiping up. “I guess I deserved that,” he said, his voice soft with regret. “You’re right—I wasn’t the greatest dad, and there’s no excuse for that. But after your mom died . . . well, you were so angry with me. If I stayed away, it was because I couldn’t bear the way you looked at me. Like I was the bad guy. You still look at me that way.”

A flurry of angry responses stormed through her head, only to melt, one by one, like snowflakes, before they reached her lips. “I do?” She hadn’t realized she was so transparent. She realized something else then: Moments like this one with her dad were numbered along with her days. If she wanted to make peace with him, she would have to start somewhere. “Okay, so maybe I wasn’t the greatest daughter, either,” she conceded. “But I was just a child, and Mom was gone. Even if I was acting like a brat, I still needed my dad. You pretty much checked out on us.”

Larry hung his head. “I suppose it’s too late to ask for forgiveness.”

“Why now? Is it because I’m dying?”

He winced at the reminder. “No. I should have done it years ago. You’re right—I did check out. It’s no excuse, but when I lost your mom, I lost my bearings. I didn’t know who I was anymore, without her, much less how to be a proper dad. I let you girls down. I let
myself
down.”

A memory surfaced, of sitting on her father’s lap when she was three or four. He’d been smoking his pipe, she recalled, the pleasant fruity smell of the tobacco mingling with the scent of his aftershave as she nestled against him with her head resting on his chest, the wool of his blue golf sweater scratchy against her cheek—the safest of havens.
He loved me back then,
she thought. Maybe Holly was right. Maybe he’d loved her all along but just didn’t know how to show it.

She wanted to forgive him. But it wasn’t going to happen overnight. “Well, you’re here now, so why don’t you make yourself useful,” she said briskly, indicating the half-peeled carrot in his hand. “Step it up, Dad, or we’ll be here all night.” His face relaxed, and he resumed his task.

Edward showed up as they were all sitting down to eat. “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise!” he exclaimed at seeing his father-in-law. His delight was genuine, she knew—he and Larry had always gotten along well. Too well, for Camille’s taste. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, you know, it’s been a while. I figured I was overdue for a visit.” Larry rose to give Edward a handshake coupled with a manly clap on the back. “Good to see you, son. You’re looking well.”

“So do you. You in town for long?” Edward pulled up a chair.

“Just until Friday. In fact . . .” He cast a tentative glance at Camille. “I was thinking maybe the kids could fly back with me if they don’t have other plans. I’d love to have them, and there’s no shortage of activities—we’ve got the pool, tennis, shuffleboard, croquet, you name it.” He turned to Kyra and Zach, asking in a hearty voice, “What do you say, kids? Would you like that?”

Zach brightened. “Cool! Can we?” he asked eagerly, his gaze darting from Camille to Edward.

Kyra looked horrified. “Zach doesn’t need me to go with him, right?” Her voice rose on a shrill, panicky note. Then she caught herself and said, “I’d love to, Grandpa, but I . . . I have this, um, thing with my friends.” An invented excuse, no doubt—most of her friends were either still away at camp or vacationing with their parents. Not that Camille blamed her daughter. Forced exile in a retirement community, if only for a few days, with a grandparent who was practically a stranger, fell into the category of cruel and unusual punishment for a teenager. Besides, Kyra had just gotten back from camp, in Maine, where she’d spent the better part of June and all of July.

“I’m sure Grandpa understands,” Camille put in before he could comment. She was mindful of the fact that he was honoring her request, but she wasn’t ready to place her children in his care just yet. She turned to Zach. “Aren’t you supposed to go kayaking with your day camp next week?”

“Yeah, but this might be the only chance I get to visit Grandpa Larry!” he pleaded.

From the mouths of babes.
Camille glanced at her father and saw the inference wasn’t lost on him. He looked chagrined that it had taken him this long to extend the invitation. The question was, did it come from a genuine desire to get to know his grandchildren? Only time would tell. And time was running out. “It’s all right by me if your dad says it’s okay,” she told her son.

“I don’t see why not,” Edward said.

Larry looked pleased. Zach was beside himself.

“Yay! I’m going to Florida!” He jumped up, nearly knocking over his water glass in his haste to run over and hug his mother. “Thanks, Mom! You’re the best!”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Edward groused good-naturedly.

Belatedly, Zach darted over to give his dad a hug, and as he did, Edward’s eyes met Camille’s over the top of their son’s scruffy brown head in a wordless exchange. Her being the go-to parent had never really been an issue until now, but all of a sudden it seemed like a very big deal.

Later that night, after they’d seen Larry out and sent the children off to bed, Camille said, “By the way, I spoke with Elise today.” She was in the walk-in closet in their bedroom, changing into her nightgown. From her vantage point, she could see her husband partially reflected in the full-length mirror on the back of the open closet door—he was seated on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt—but he couldn’t see her, as she stood still and alert as a deer at the edge of a clearing.

“What’s new with her?” he inquired pleasantly.

“She has two extra tickets to an off-Broadway play a friend of hers is starring in. She wanted to know if we’d like to come as her guests.”

“What night?”

“Friday of next week. I told her I’d have check with you. But I was thinking . . .” She paused before proceeding with caution. “She happened to mention she was free this weekend, and I was wondering what you’d think about inviting her to the country.” She held her breath. Ever since that first visit, she’d been listening for it: the note of hesitation . . . the pregnant pause . . . the meaningful silence . . . that would signal an underlying hesitation where Elise was concerned. But so far, there had been nothing to suggest he didn’t thoroughly enjoy Elise’s company. The two times Elise had had them over for supper, he’d seemed to have a good time; nor did he balk whenever she, Camille, suggested a get-together, even when it was just him and Elise—like the night he’d taken her to the opera, when Camille wasn’t feeling up to it herself.

“Sure, why not?” he said now, and she felt a peculiar heaviness settle over her. It was what she wanted, what she’d been working toward, but still it left her feeling sad and lonely.

“It’d be just the three of us,” she reminded him. Zach would be in Florida with her father, and Kyra had been given permission to spend the weekend with her best friend, Alexia, at Alexia’s parents’ country house in Rhinebeck. She pulled her nightgown over her head and stepped from the closet. Edward still sat on the bed. His shirt was off, and now he was bent over untying his shoelaces. She watched the play of muscles in his broad shoulders and back and felt some of the old thrill from when they were first married, when she’d regularly think,
I can’t believe I have this beautiful man all to myself
. Was that still true? Did she still have him all to herself?

He pulled his shoes off and straightened. “Is that a problem?” he asked mildly.

“I wouldn’t want her to feel like a third wheel.”

“Why would she feel that way?”

“I don’t know. I was just wondering if it might feel a little . . . forced.”

“You think she might get the wrong idea, is that it?” He frowned, an edge creeping into his voice.

“No. But you might.” The words were out before the thought was fully formed.

He eyed her with reproach. “You think I’m lusting after Elise?”

Would it be so surprising?
she thought. God knew his needs weren’t being met at home. They hadn’t made love in . . . how long? She’d lost track. Not that she didn’t still find him desirable, but desire was a thing of the past—another thing her cancer had laid claim to. At night, when got they got under the covers and settled on their respective sides of the bed, they seemed separated by more than an expanse of mattress—it felt more like a gulf. Yet the thought of her husband sleeping with another woman was torture.

Emotions churned in her: regret at having to do the unthinkable in setting those wheels in motion; sorrow at what she’d be leaving behind when she died; but most of all, a deep and abiding love for the husband she’d set adrift and who was now slipping away. She sank down beside him on the bed. “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you need,” she said in a choked voice.

He shook his head slowly, and she saw the gleam of tears in his own eyes. Then he pulled her into his arms. For the longest time, he just held her, stroking her hair, not saying anything. When he drew back at last, she wordlessly peeled off her nightgown. Edward regarded her quizzically as if to say,
Are you sure?
She nodded, closing her eyes, giving herself over to his touch. She’d missed this, she realized. The feel of his hands on her body, the sense of closeness.

She lay down on the bed. She was naked except for what Holly jokingly called her “big-girl” panties, but right now she didn’t feel like a big girl; she felt as vulnerable as a child. He kissed her, first on her mouth and then on her neck, before tenderly pressing his lips to the hollow at the base of her throat. His breath was warm and smelled faintly of cloves from the spiced pears she’d served for dessert. She thought of all the times they’d made love like this in the past, taking their time, savoring each moment, because didn’t they have all the time in the world?

With featherlight strokes, he caressed her breasts and between her legs. She felt herself stir to life where she’d been dormant. He unbuckled his belt and slipped off his trousers, and she ran the palm of her hand over his muscled belly and below, feeling his erection through his boxers.

Tears filled her eyes when he entered her and began to move inside her. She felt blessed to have a husband who still desired her, though she was no longer desirable, with her ribs showing and the port that had been surgically inserted just below her clavicle protruding like some strange and incongruous appendage. How could she ever have doubted his love? Afterward, they didn’t get under the covers right away; they lay nestled together on the bedspread, their limbs entwined.

“That was nice,” she whispered.

“Mmmm,” he murmured contentedly.

Camille roused herself, finally, to pull her nightgown back on. Then they climbed under the covers, and before long she was fast asleep, dreaming of when they were in their first apartment, on 115th Street, with its toilet that wouldn’t flush properly, its paint that was forever flaking from the ceiling. In her dream, it didn’t seem so long ago; it was as though they were still that carefree young couple, so certain in their belief that love would conquer all and the best was yet to come.

THERE WAS ONLY
one word to describe Curtis McBride: normal. Wonderfully, refreshingly, even shockingly normal after the string of losers Holly had dragged home through the years. He was the perfect combination of clean-cut banker and hipster, well-mannered but with a quirky style—evident in the porpoise-patterned tie he had on—and a gleam in his eye that let you know he could rock it out when the occasion called for it. He had an open, boyish face framed in longish brown hair, dimpled cheeks, and blue eyes that seemed permanently crinkled from the smile that was as much a part of him as his nose or ears. Over lunch at Peels, he entertained them with his tales of life abroad.

“I used to think the Brits were like us, only with an accent,” he said. “But every day, you’re reminded you’re in a foreign country. Like, when they talk football, they mean soccer. Braces are to hold pants up, not straighten teeth. If you’re ‘wet,’ it’s because you’re a stick in the mud, not because you just got out of the shower. And . . .” He paused before delivering the pièce de résistance, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “if another guy at work asks if you happen to have a spare rubber, you do not, I repeat
do not,
offer him the condom from your wallet.”

Everyone roared with laughter, Holly loudest of all. “You
didn’t,
” she sputtered when she’d caught her breath.

He grinned. “True story.”

“If you’d used that thing with me, we wouldn’t be in this boat,” she teased him.