The Replacement Wife (56 page)

He went from dropping hints to asking outright when she was going to introduce him to her family. “My mom would have the church booked before you had both feet in the door. Or synagogue—she doesn’t discriminate,” she would tell him. “The only thing she cares about is if you’re solvent and have lively sperm.” But the joke was wearing thin. Each time, she saw the question in his eyes.

Finally, she took him home to meet her parents. Angie’s mom, predictably, was overjoyed. At the dinner table, Angie could see from the look on her face, she was already mentally making the seating arrangements for the wedding reception. Her dad was won over by the fact that David, a Princeton man, preferred drinking beer out of a bottle as opposed to a glass and was a diehard Mets fan. He also liked that David was in real estate—commercial real estate, to be exact. Her dad had a mistrust of what he called “paper” professions, such as finance or law, whereas real estate dealt in tangibles. Francine, who found an excuse to drop by while David was there, pronounced him “delicious.” Angie, it seemed, was the only one with doubts.

He took her to dinner the following Saturday, at Marea. It didn’t seem auspicious when he ordered a bottle of champagne. He’d just closed a deal with a Japanese retailer on a ten-thousand-square-foot space in Midtown, so naturally he wanted to celebrate. It wasn’t until talk turned to the newlyweds, Geoff and Brenda, whom he’d had dinner with the night before, that she began to grow nervous. “We all thought Geoff would be the last to tie the knot,” he said as they nibbled on the passion-fruit napoleon they were sharing for dessert. “We used to joke that he’d donate a kidney before he’d give up the bachelor life. Now I’m the last man standing. Though hopefully not for long.”

With that, he withdrew a jeweler’s box from his coat pocket, which he opened to reveal a diamond ring nestled in satin folds. “It was my mom’s. Dad wanted me to have it. And I know nothing would make him happier than to see you wearing it.” He cleared his throat, asking in a more formal voice, “Angie, will you marry me?”

Angie almost choked on the bite of food she was swallowing. She stared at the ring, dumbfounded. Finally, she managed to stammer, “David, I—I don’t know what to say. It’s . . . it’s so sudden.”

“I know,” he said. “But I can’t stop thinking about my dad. How much this would mean to him. Why not give him this last bit of happiness?” He took her hand, looking deep into her eyes. “Angie, I’m crazy about you. I know it must seem like I’m rushing into this, but you just know when something’s right, and I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life. Dad knows it, too. He said, ‘If you don’t marry that girl, you’re an even bigger
luftmentsh
than I thought.’” David plucked the ring from the box and held it out to her. “Don’t you want to, at least, try it on?”

It was the most beautiful ring Angie had ever seen: a cushion-cut diamond flanked by smaller ones in a filigreed white-gold setting. She could see herself walking down the aisle with the ring on her finger, Mendel Blum looking on, beaming, as she and David exchanged vows at the altar, or under the chuppah, or wherever. Mendel’s last wish realized. She blinked back tears, and before she knew it, she was holding out her hand. David slid the ring onto her finger. “It looks beautiful on you. Just as I knew it would,” he said, bending to press his lips to her hand. She felt a rush of affection and some of the thrill her sisters must have felt when they got engaged.

“It’s lovely.” She turned her hand this way and that so the diamonds caught the light and sparkled. “And a perfect fit, I might add.”

“I borrowed one of your rings to have it sized,” he said.

“The silver one I thought I’d lost?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You sneaky devil. How am I supposed to trust a guy who makes off with my belongings in the middle of the night?”

“Actually, it was broad daylight. You were in the shower.” David broke into a grin. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it back. Unless, of course, it has sentimental value.” In other words, a gift from a former boyfriend, said his arch look. “In which case, you’ll find it at the bottom of the river.”

“Bastard,” she said, laughing.

“Should I take that as a yes?” He eyed her expectantly.

She studied him, taking in his hazel eyes with those ridiculously long lashes; his mouth that laughed at her jokes and kissed her tenderly and pleasured her in bed, and which right now flickered with a smile itching to break loose. She had no doubt he would make a good husband, but was she ready to be a wife? She returned the ring to its satin nest, saying, “I’m sorry, David, but I can’t give you an answer right now. Don’t take this the wrong way, because I care about you. Deeply. And you know I’d do anything for your dad. But I’m going to need a little more time.”

His face fell, and she saw how crushed he was. But he quickly pulled himself together and said, “I was hoping for something more definite, but I understand. I know I’m jumping the gun.” He flashed her a stalwart grin. “Kind of ironic, huh? The guy who waits till he’s forty, then has an itchy trigger finger. It would help, though, if I had something more to go on than a ‘maybe.’”

“Will this do for now?” Angie leaned across the table to kiss him—a deep, open-mouthed kiss. When they drew apart, other diners were staring and David was grinning from ear to ear. The thought of Edward flashed through her mind once more. But this time, the pain was tempered by a twisted sense of triumph.
You thought you were the one holding all the cards, but two can play at this game.
It was followed by a surge of guilt. She felt mean and childish. Also, what did it say about her feelings for David? She couldn’t call what she felt for him love, not yet, but maybe it was something even better: the soil in which the seeds of a lasting relationship could be sowed. She smiled at him. “Tell your dad I don’t think you’re a
luftmentsh,
whatever that is.”

THE NEXT MORNING,
David called early with the sad but not unexpected news that his father had passed away, peacefully in his sleep. His voice was frayed but calm over the phone. Angie, choking back tears of her own, conveyed her heartfelt sympathy and asked if there was anything she could do. David thanked her, but told her no, the arrangements had all been made. The funeral, in accordance with Jewish custom, was set to take place two days hence. He asked only that she accompany him and his sisters, who were flying in from California, to the synagogue the following evening to say Kaddish. “I know Dad would’ve wanted you there,” he said.

The day of the funeral, Angie was also where she knew Mendel would want her to be: in the thick of final preparations for the reception—or “farewell bash,” as the old man had dubbed it—to be held after the service. She slipped away just long enough to cab it over to the synagogue to hear the final prayers read before heading back to Mendel’s sister’s apartment, on Sutton place. At the synagogue, it had been standing room only, so she knew to expect a crowd. She would have to marshal all her forces. It was important to her, for personal as well as professional reasons, that Mendel Blum get the sendoff he deserved. With that in mind, she had Pat and Cleo inspect the linens, glassware, and cutlery, for any spots, tears, chips, or cracks; she put Stylianos to work checking the wine bottles for any loose corks. Tamika, in addition to her duties as kitchen helper, was given the job of keeping Mrs. Kaufman’s teacup poodle, Nibs, who had been underfoot all morning, yapping his head off and nipping at everyone’s ankles, from being trampled (possibly on purpose). Tamika solved the problem by tucking the poodle into her apron pocket, where he immediately quieted, content as a baby in a Bjorn.

Before long, people began pouring in: friends and relatives of Mendel’s, including several cousins from Israel and a niece and nephew from France; fellow musicians and former students; people with whom he’d become friendly through the charitable organizations he’d been active in; the private-duty nurses who’d tended to him at the end. The apartment, in a prewar building, was spacious enough to stage a hockey tournament, but with so many people, it quickly became jammed. Angie only caught glimpses of David from time to time. He looked solemn and dignified in his dark suit and yarmulke as he acquitted his duties as host, along with his sisters, Ruth and Sophie. (Their elderly aunt was too addled by grief to do more than drift aimlessly about.) He was the earnest bar mitzvah boy all grown up.

Angie had taken at once to David’s sisters, when she’d met them the night before last. They were both tall like him, with the same winning smile, though the similarities ended there. Ruth, a women’s studies professor at UCSB, was plain and seemed to prefer it that way; she accentuated her plainness the way women like Angie’s sister Julia did their beauty. Sophie, a professional photographer, was cuter and fluffier—literally; she had a bush of curly hair that David teasingly called her Jew-fro. Neither had asked what Angie, a stranger, was doing at the synagogue the night she came to say Kaddish with the family. She was with their beloved brother so they had embraced her as one of their own. Which only made Angie feel guiltier about being a . . . what had Mendel called it? A
luftmentsh
. A not-nice person. The kind of person who’d keep a wonderful guy like David on tenterhooks, especially when he was in mourning for his father.

It was an hour or more before David caught up with her. Angie was in the kitchen, sprinkling chopped chives over a platter of Russ & Daughters nova, wafer-thin slices wrapped around a stuffing of horseradish cream cheese (a favorite treat of Mendel’s). He pulled her close for a quick kiss. “You,” he said, “are amazing. Everything is perfect. I can’t thank you enough.”

“No thanks necessary, but gratuities gratefully accepted,” she said, and then added on a more serious note, “Look, I’d have done this for free. Your dad was special. I just wish I’d had time to get to know him better.” She cleared her throat, which had grown tight.

From the dining room and parlor drifted the sounds of lively conversation as those who’d gathered to pay their respects told stories about the old man. Earlier, one of the Israeli cousins, a former member of the Knesset, had spoken movingly about the time Mendel traveled to Jerusalem with the Philharmonic to play for an audience of Holocaust survivors, one of whom was from Mendel’s native village in Poland, it turned out. Others spoke of the good deeds Mendel had done in his lifetime, in particular his generosity toward up-and-coming musicians, many of whom he’d mentored. One of those mentees, Reuben Diaz, now an accomplished violinist in his own right, had paid tribute at the funeral by playing a piece he’d composed in Mendel’s honor.

“He thought you were pretty special, too.” David’s eyes searched her face, and she saw the question in them. She needed to give him an answer, soon, but they hadn’t had a moment alone together since his father’s passing. And an opportunity for them to talk in private wasn’t likely to present itself in the days to come. David and his sisters would be sitting shiva
,
at their father’s.

“I think it had more to do with my matzo balls than my winning personality,” she said.

David smiled and cupped her face in his hands. He ran his thumb under her eye to catch the tear trembling on her lower lid. His voice was raspy from fielding condolences all day. “You know what my father would have said to that? ‘
Buba,
you are so much more than your matzo balls.’”

“Yeah, I make a mean kugel, too.”

“Listen, what do you say we go out for a drink when this is over? Just the two of us.”

More than anything, Angie wanted to go home and put her feet up when this was over, but she couldn’t refuse. Not today, of all days. Besides, she knew it wasn’t just time alone with her he wanted. So she put on a smile. “Just what the doctor ordered,” she said, then groaned inwardly. A Freudian slip? Perhaps. But the last thing she needed right now was to be reminded of Edward.

GRAY SKIES GREETED
Edward as his plane taxied onto the runway at JFK later that day. He was exhausted and in a foul mood. He’d flown to Boston earlier in the day, where he’d been a guest lecturer at Harvard Medical School, but the return flight was delayed due to stormy weather. It had meant cooling his heels at Logan Airport for two hours before the plane finally boarded, and it was closing in on four p.m. by the time he disembarked at JFK ninety minutes later.

He was in an even fouler mood by the time he emerged from baggage claim, having run interference with fellow passengers weaving in and out of his path and creating roadblocks with their mounds of luggage. He collapsed gratefully into the backseat of the hired Town Car that was waiting for him at the curb. It almost made up for the fact that he was going home to an empty apartment. He gazed unseeingly out the window as the car eased into traffic and onto the exit ramp.

He was thinking about Angie. All day, memories of her had been playing in his head like the continuous loop on the airport TVs. It had started when he was at the podium giving his lecture. A petite, dark-haired woman (one of the professors?) standing in back had caught his eye, and with the lights dimmed for his PowerPoint presentation, she looked at first glance like Angie. So much so, it had given him a start. He became flustered and lost track of what he was saying and had to pause to shuffle through his notes, his heart pounding so hard he half expected to hear it, amplified by the mike clipped to his lapel, reverberating throughout the packed lecture hall.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been thrown by a false sighting. Occasionally, he’d catch a glimpse of a dark, ponytailed head in a crowd, or that of a diminutive figure striding jauntily ahead of him along a sidewalk, and his pulse would start to race. Then the woman would turn her head or he’d catch up with her, and he’d see she wasn’t Angie. Sometimes it was memories that ambushed him. He’d be going about his business and out of the blue an image would surface. Angie naked, a freckle-faced odalisque . . . or in the kitchen throwing together an elaborate meal as casually as if it were mac and cheese out of a box . . . or at the farmers’ market pondering which head of radicchio to buy as if the fate of the world rested on the decision. In those moments, his heart would seize in his chest and he’d say to himself,
You’re a damn fool. You wasted precious time trying to fix something that was broken beyond repair, and now you have nothing.