The Replacement Wife (22 page)

“I’m not as young as you think. I’ll be thirty-nine next week,” she informed him. “By the Italian-American scale, which is measured in dog years, that makes me practically a senior citizen.”

She thought of the birthday party her mom was planning. It was with a heavy sense of obligation that she faced each year’s, knowing Loretta would be offended were she to say no to the cake and balloons and cast of thousands. If Angie never again had to hear her family sing “Happy Birthday” while she blew out the candles on the cake, knowing, as she made her wish, that her mom was wishing for something entirely different, it would be fine by her. Yet her pulse quickened and a small jolt of electricity shot through her when Edward said, with a twinkle in his eye, “Well, you’re never too old to celebrate a birthday. What do you say I buy you a drink?”

It was all perfectly innocent. She knew every move in the book—from her own experience and from observing others at the Harte to Heart meet-and-greets—and nothing he’d said or done hinted even remotely that he was looking to get into her pants. He merely enjoyed her company, for which she was glad. Still, she knew she had to be careful, because her own motives weren’t as pure and her heart didn’t always take orders from her head. Even a lapsed Catholic like her knew better than to get involved with a married man, whatever his circumstances. A voice in her head warned,
If you knew what was good for you, you’d put a stop to this now.

Instead, she found herself saying, “Sure, but I don’t know where you’d go for a drink around here.” They passed a seedy-looking bodega. Two doors down a shabbily dressed man sat on the front stoop of a derelict brownstone. “I’m not too picky, but I prefer drinking out of a glass to a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.”

He chuckled. “I was thinking of someplace in your neighborhood.”

“Oh. Well, there’s a tavern near where I live that’s pretty nice.” Belatedly, she asked, “But don’t you have to get home?” They’d reached the entrance to the subway station and she paused to look up at him. His gaze drifted past her, his face clouding over. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it of whatever had been troubling him, and smiled at her.

“It’s just one drink,” he said.

“ANGIE, IS THAT
you?” Her mom’s voice came bulleting down the line. Loretta always knew which of her daughters was calling before said daughter so much as breathed into the phone.

Angie suppressed a sigh. “It’s me.”

“You okay? You sound funny.” Built-in caller ID wasn’t Loretta’s only talent.

“I’m fine, Ma. I just called to say hi.” If Angie let more than a week go by between phone calls, her mom assumed something was wrong. Her busy schedule was no excuse. Loretta would remind her that her sisters phoned daily and they had jobs, too (not to mention husbands and children). Angie’s infrequent visits were another bone of contention. Whenever she reminded her mom that, unlike her sisters, all of whom lived within close driving distance, she had to take the train from the city, Loretta would wave away the excuse. Her attitude was summed up by a comment she’d once made: “That’s why they call it the
Long Island
Rail Road, so people like you can come see their families once in a while.”

If only it were as easy as taking the train.

More like going back in time.
At family get-togethers, at her childhood home in Oyster Bay, the old rivalries and squabbles were alive and well. Angie’s sisters still argued with one another about who’d had the messiest room when they were growing up or the most friends or the cutest boyfriends in high school. They discussed ancient history as if it were breaking news, and they were fond of dredging up past incidents—everything from when Angie wet her pants in kindergarten to when she was caught making out with Brendan Soper behind the bleachers in ninth grade—that were guaranteed to make her cringe. Her parents were even worse; they acted as if she’d never left home. Her dad still called her by her childhood nickname, “Jellybean,” and her mom was constantly nagging her to stand up straight, watch her mouth, or stop biting her nails. It was comforting in a way, like an old teddy bear with half its fur rubbed off, but mostly it was just irritating.

In the background, Angie could hear the sound of a baby crying. “I was watching Frannie’s kids while she was at her PTA meeting.” Loretta raised her voice to be heard above the racket.

“Nick couldn’t watch them?” Angie said.

Loretta informed her that Francine’s husband, Nick, who was the baseball coach at Hofstra University, had a game that night and that Ann Marie, the babysitter who looked after the kids during the day while Francine taught school, was sick. “I don’t know why your sister even bothers with a babysitter when she has me,” she sniffed. “What, I raised five kids and I can’t look after my own grandchildren?” Angie heard Francine make some unintelligible comment in the background, at which Loretta yelled in response, “Oh, yeah? Well, you’ll be old, too, one day, Miss Smart Mouth!”

“Tell Frannie I said hi,” Angie said, stifling a giggle.

Francine was the sister to whom she was closest, and not just in age. They shared the same sense of humor and unsparing worldview. Francine was the only one who didn’t paint a rosy picture of married life. Being a wife and mother had its rewards, Francine had once told her, but usually she was too tired to enjoy them. When she’d turned forty, Angie had treated her to a day of pampering at the Elizabeth Arden spa. Francine fell asleep during the pedicure.

Angie and her mom talked a while longer. Loretta told her about the Alaskan cruise she and Angie’s dad had booked for September, and Angie brought her mom up-to-date on her latest venture, a former pizza parlor in the Bowery that she’d leased and planned to renovate, her business having outgrown its current space. Then, as if the conversation had been just the warm-up for the main event, Loretta inquired casually, “So, you met anyone interesting lately?”

Angie, still flush from the evening spent in Edward’s company, felt a twinge of guilt. She had nothing to hide except her own lustful thoughts, but if her mom were to find out she was so much as entertaining fantasies about a married man, burning in hell would be the least of her worries.

“Yeah, Ma. I ran into Johnny Depp the other day and he asked me out on a date.”

“Ha, ha. You should write jokes for Letterman.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“You think your sisters found husbands by sitting home alone every night?”

“You think I sit home every night? I wish.” Angie was glad her mom couldn’t see her now, sitting on the sofa in her pj’s, a pint of chocolate Häagen-Dazs in hand. “The only reason I’m not working tonight is because it’s Wednesday. Remember, I have my cooking class on Wednesdays? The kids said to say hello, by the way. They’re still talking about your meatballs.”

Loretta chuckled at the memory. “Ha! You tell them they can come over to my house anytime.”

Angie smiled. Her mom could be a pain in the ass at times, but her heart was in the right place. There was always room for one more at her table. “I’ll be sure to do that, Ma.”

In the next moment, her mother erased any points she’d earned in the goodwill department by seizing the chance to deliver another of her public service announcements. “You’d have kids of your own by now if you weren’t so stubborn. Just remember, you’re not getting any younger.”

Angie, in her exasperation, blurted, “Maybe I should just marry a man with kids. That way you’d have ready-made grandchildren, and I wouldn’t have you bugging me all the time.”

She might as well have dangled a bloodied limb into a shark pond. Her mother pounced. “So you
are
seeing someone. Why didn’t you say so? Is he divorced, is that it? Because if you think your dad and I would have a problem with that, may I remind you we’re very broad-minded. Did we try to talk your sister out of getting divorced?” Whenever she told the story she edited out the part where she’d begged Julia to go to the family priest before leaving her first husband. “If he’s good to you, that’s all that matters. So, when do we get to meet him?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve met him myself.”

“Fine. Be that way,” Loretta said in a mock-injured tone. “I’m only looking out for you, you know.”

“I know, Ma, and I’m sure I’ll thank you someday. Now will you put Frannie on?”

Moments later, the extension was picked up. “Hi, Ange,” her sister’s voice greeted her. “Sorry. The kids are hopped up on all the sugar Ma’s been feeding them. I was just—” She broke off at the sound of a yowl. “Nicky, stop that or I swear! Your brother is
not
a punching bag.”

Amid the din, Angie heard the sound of someone breathing into the phone who wasn’t Francine, and she said pointedly, “You can hang up now, Ma.” She waited until she heard the click at the other end before giving in to a sigh.

Francine chuckled knowingly. “Tell me about it.”

“She driving you nuts, too?”

“Oh, yeah. She won’t let up about the babysitter. You’d think Ann Marie was totally unreliable the way Ma carries on. I know it’s only because she can’t stand it that
she’s
not the one taking care the kids, but it still gets to me. Though God only knows why she’d want the job. Didn’t get enough of dirty diapers and snotty noses when we were growing up? I swear, the woman is a glutton for punishment.” Angie heard the sound of a door closing as Francine went into the next room, followed by the snick of a cigarette lighter. Francine had been trying for years to quit smoking, though she claimed she was more likely to drop dead of exhaustion than die from lung cancer.

“What did you tell her?”

Now it was her sister’s turn to sigh. “That I’d think about it.” Few could withstand the force of nature that was Loretta D’Amato. “As if I don’t have enough problems.”

“Why, what’s going on?” Angie asked.

Francine took an audible drag off her cigarette. “Let’s see. Nicky was sent home from school last week with a case of head lice. Then he and Bobby got into a fight because Bobby said he had ‘cooties.’ And now Caitlin’s coming down with the same thing Ann Marie has. Oh, and did I mention there’s talk of another teachers’ strike? But hey, other than that everything’s just peachy.” Angie pictured her sister, still pretty but tired-looking and working on the twenty pounds she’d gained with her last pregnancy. “So, did I hear Ma say something about you dating some divorced guy?”

Angie groaned. “Will somebody please just shoot me now and put me out of my misery?”

“What, and leave us to deal with Ma on our own? Not a chance. I’d sooner shoot myself.” Francine dropped her voice as if their mother might be listening in. “Seriously, Ange, if you’re seeing someone, you can tell me. I promise I won’t breathe a word to Ma.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Angie would have left it at that, but she knew it was no use trying to keep anything from Francine. Her sister would ferret out what little there was to know. “First of all, I’m not ‘seeing’ him—we’re just friends. And secondly, he’s not divorced.”

“Oh, God. Please tell me you’re not having an affair with a married man.”

“Of course not! I told you, we’re just friends.”

“That’s what I said about Nick before I got knocked up.”

Angie recalled what a huge deal it had been at the time. Francine having to drop out of graduate school when she found out she was pregnant and marry Nick, whom she’d only been dating a short while. Thirteen years and three children later they were still together . . . and Francine was still wondering what might have been. Angie dug into the Häagen-Dazs container with her spoon, ladling up a soupy pocket where the ice cream had partially melted. “I’m not going to get knocked up,” she told her sister as she slurped down the spoonful of ice cream. “I’m not even sleeping with him.”

“Just watch yourself, that’s all I’m saying.” Francine fell silent a moment before venturing, “So, is he is good looking, this friend of yours who’s married and who you’re not sleeping with?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Angie was careful to downplay it, but Francine must have heard something more in her voice because she muttered under her breath, “Lord help us.” Angie insisted, “It’s not what you’re thinking, I swear.”

“You also swore you weren’t going to lose your virginity to Kevin Boyle, and who was walking around with condoms in her purse no more than a month later?” Francine reminded her.

“I was sixteen!”

“Yeah, well, some things never change.” Francine paused to let that sink in before saying, “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I have to get the kids home. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? In the meantime . . .”

“I know. Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do.” Angie pictured her sister grinning at the other end as she stubbed out her Parliament Light. You wouldn’t know it to look at Francine now, but inside the suburban mom’s body was the teenage girl who’d once mooned a carload of boys out the window of her best friend’s Camry on the way home from a party after too many wine coolers.

Angie hung up and closed her eyes, leaning back against the sofa cushions. She pictured Edward as he’d looked tonight, when they were lingering on the sidewalk outside the tavern after the “one quick drink” that had stretched to several hours, his face glowing as he spoke, not about taking it back to her place, but about his daughter’s starring role in her school play. No, he’d done or said nothing to warrant the feelings he evoked in her, but she’d wanted to feel his fingers in her hair and his lips on hers nonetheless. She’d wanted—

She gave a guilty start at the wayward direction her thoughts had taken. She couldn’t help having feelings, she supposed, but God help her if she were ever to act on them. Might as well dig a hole and jump in before her family could dig it for her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“A
re you sure this is such a good idea?” Holly asked as they loaded the last of the shopping bags into the cargo hold of Camille’s Volvo station wagon, parked at the curb in front of her building.

Camille turned to face her sister. “You’re always telling me to think outside the box. Well, I’m finally taking your advice.”