From the New York Times bestselling author of If You Only Knew comes an irresistible look at the affection and the acrimony that binds families together

Ainsley O’Leary is so ready to get married—she’s even found the engagement ring her boyfriend has stashed away. What she doesn’t anticipate is being blindsided by a breakup he chronicles in a blog...which (of course) goes viral. Devastated and humiliated, Ainsley turns to her older half sister, Kate, who’s struggling with a sudden loss of her own.

Kate’s always been the poised, self-assured sister, but becoming a newlywed—and a widow—in the space of four months overwhelms her. Though the sisters were never close, she starts to confide in Ainsley, especially when she learns her late husband was keeping a secret from her.

Despite the murky blended-family dynamic that’s always separated them, Ainsley’s and Kate’s heartaches bind their summer together when they come to terms with the inevitable imperfection of relationships and family—and the possibility of one day finding love again.

Praise for On Second Thought

“Emotional depth is seared into every page along with wry banter, bringing readers to tears and smiles. Another hit for Higgins.”

—Library Journal, starred review

Praise for If You Only Knew

“[An] emotionally compelling story [and] perceptive study of love, marriage, sisterhood, and loyalty. A powerful, emotionally textured winner.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“The kind of book I enjoy the most—sparkling characters, fast-moving plot and laugh-out-loud dialogue. A winner!”

— New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips

“Poignant, funny and richly entertaining.”

—NPR

“This emotional journey is filled with drama, laughter and tears and squeezes the heart. It should be on every bedside table in the country!”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr

“Oh, what a satisfying and delicious read! I admired the writing, the wit, the keen eye at work here. Thank you, Kristan Higgins.”

—Elinor Lipman

“Higgins’ tender, heartfelt If You Only Knew bridges the gap between romance and women’s fiction.”

—BookPage

“Hilarious... Kristan Higgins is spot on with her dialogue and characters. A fantastic story.”

—Fresh Fiction

On Second Thought

Kristan Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KRISTAN HIGGINS is a New York Times bestselling author of over a dozen novels, including her acclaimed Blue Heron series. Along with her heroic and tolerant firefighter husband and two snarky and entertaining children, Kristan lives in her hometown in Connecticut.

www.KristanHiggins.com

This book is dedicated to Hannah Elizabeth Kristan, who is one of the best people I know in all the wide world—funny, kind, brave and brilliant. So proud to be your cousin, sweetheart!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Questions for Discussion

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Kate

If I had known how things would play out on the evening of April 6, I would’ve brought my A-game that morning.

I would’ve set my alarm early so Nathan and I could make love. We’d been married for only four months, so that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. I would’ve brushed my teeth first and my hair. Afterward, I would’ve kissed him lingeringly, cupped his face in my hands and said, “I love you so much. I’m so lucky to be your wife.” This would’ve probably caused him to give me the side-eye, because such gooey proclamations weren’t my style, but the feelings were there just the same.

I also would’ve added, “Don’t get me that second glass of wine tonight, by the way.”

Instead, I did what I’d been doing almost every morning of our marriage; when Nathan’s alarm went off—at 6:00 a.m., mind you, a cruel hour—I pulled the pillow over my head and muttered darkly. Nathan got up every day to spend forty-five minutes on the elliptical, which proved the old “opposites attract” theory, since I viewed walking down the block to get a coffee as my daily workout.

As I grumbled, Nathan laughed because my hatred of predawn wake-ups had yet to grow old for him.

However, I did get up after he finished dressing, and I stumbled down to the kitchen in my plaid flannel pajama bottoms and NYU sweatshirt, the thrilling, awkward sense of newness at seeing my husband off to work still with me. I loved him like crazy, despite his addiction to exercise. At least he was healthy. (The Fates laughed merrily, the capricious bitches.)

He was already at the kitchen table.

“Morning,” I said, tousling his still-damp hair. Hard to believe I’d married a ginger, which had never before been my type. And yet we’d had fantastic sex just last night. I leaned down and kissed his neck at the memory. See? I wasn’t exactly in a coma, even if it was still too early to blink both eyes simultaneously.

“Hey,” he said with a smile. “How’d you sleep, honey?”

“Great. How about you?” I took out a mug and poured some life-giving coffee, wondering if the fact that I still liked the smell meant I wasn’t pregnant.

“I was very happily exhausted,” he said with a smile. “Slept like the dead.”

Nathan put his cup in the dishwasher, which he emptied every night before bed. He always used the same cup and put it in the same place on the top rack. He was an architect. He liked things neat and square, and his house was a showplace, after all. A literal showplace of his workmanship.

“We have Eric’s party tonight, right?” he asked.

“What? Oh, yeah. His ‘To Life’ party.” I took a long pull of coffee and suppressed a grimace. Eric, my sister’s eternal boyfriend, was celebrating his cancer-free status, and while I was obviously glad he’d recovered, the party seemed to smack of hubris. His health status wasn’t exactly news, either—he’d kept us all up-to-date in searing detail on his blog, Facebook page, Twitter and LinkedIn accounts, Tumblr and the Pinterest board with photos of himself, his IV bag during chemo and, yes, his affected, er, area.

“He’s a good guy. I’m so happy for him,” Nathan said.

“I wonder if he’ll run through a photo of himself, like they do on that weight-loss show,” I said. Nathan laughed, his eyes crinkling with attractive crow’s-feet, causing a warm tightening in my stomach.

Our togetherness still occasionally caused me a slight prickle of alarm. It was like waking up in a hotel room, that second when you don’t know where you are before realizing you’re on a wonderful vacation.

We looked at each other a minute, and the mood shifted slightly. Don’t ask if I’m pregnant, I ordered telepathically. My gaze shifted to the window to dodge the unspoken question. Outside, a lion’s head sculpture spit water onto a pile of rocks. I can’t say I was comfortable living in a house that had “water features” just yet.

In a few weeks, we planned to survey my stuff, currently in storage, and see what we wanted to bring here. But for now, the house was Nathan’s, not mine.

Nathan, too, did not yet feel like he was mine. After all, we’d known each other less than a year, and yet we’d vowed to love each other till death did us part.

So I did what I always did when I felt awkward—lifted my Nikon, which was always close at hand, and took his picture. I am a photographer, after all. Through the lens, I saw that he, too, felt a little shy, and tenderness wrapped my heart as I pressed the button.

“You’ll break that thing, Kate,” he said with a rather adorable blush.

Now, if I’d known what would happen later, I would’ve said, Are you kidding? You’re gorgeous, even though his face was kind and interesting rather than gorgeous. Or even better, I want lots of pictures of the man I love. Even if it was smarmy, it was also true. Love had surprised me at the age of thirty-nine.

But in my ignorance, I said, “Nah. It’s really strong,” and smiled at him. He kissed me, twice, and I gave him a long hug, breathing in his good clean smell, then patted his ass, making him smile again as he left.

The minute he pulled his BMW out of the driveway, I bolted up the stairs and into one of the guest bathrooms, where I’d stashed the pregnancy tests. The lights there were motion sensor for some reason, and a little picky, so I jazz-handed and flapped until they went on.

Why the guest bathroom? Because Nathan was the type to sit on the edge of the tub and watch me go through the whole thing, stick in hand, trying not to pee on myself. I’d let him watch the first two times, but I really didn’t want an audience.

Because no matter what the literature said, a negative pregnancy test still felt like my fault.

“Two lines, two lines, two lines,” I chanted as I peed. After all, I’d be forty in a few months. No time to waste. We’d been trying since we got married.

I set the test on the edge of the sink, not looking at it, heart knocking. Three minutes, the instructions said. One hundred and eighty seconds. “Come on, two lines,” I said, channeling my sister’s cheerleader attitude toward life, minus the sugarcoating that she seemed to put on everything. “You can do it!”

A baby. Even now, the cells could be multiplying inside me. A mini-Nathan on the way. A boy. The image was so strong I could feel it in my heart, my rib cage already expanding with love—my son, my little guy, with blue eyes like his daddy’s and brown hair like mine. I could see his little face, the soft blue newborn cap on his perfect head, a beautiful baby, warm in my arms. Mrs. Coburn—Eloise, that was—would look at me with newfound admiration (an heir!), and Nathan Senior would cluck with pride over Nathan IV (or perhaps a different name. I was partial to David).

One hundred and seventy-two. One hundred and seventy-three.

I decided to go for two hundred to give the pregnancy hormones a chance to really soak in. To give those two lines a chance to shout their news.

A baby. A husband was already pretty surreal after twenty years of singleness. Somehow, it felt greedy to be asking for a baby, too.

But I did want a baby, so much. For the past six or seven years, I’d been telling myself I was perfectly fine without one. I’d been lying.

One hundred and ninety-eight. On hundred and ninety-nine.

Two hundred.

I reached for the stick.

One line.

“Well, shit,” I said.

The disappointment was surprising in its heft.

I wrapped the pregnancy test in some tissues and buried it in the trash.

Not this month, little guy, I told my nonbaby, swallowing. I wouldn’t cry.

It was okay. It had been only four months. I could have wine tonight at Eric’s party. And Nathan would be sweet when I told him. He’d say something like, “At least it’s fun trying.”

But if it took too much longer, it wouldn’t be. I’d known friends who went through this, the grim tracking of the ovulation cycle, the way making love becomes insemination, as romantic as a turkey baster. One of my college friends, in fact, had said she preferred the turkey baster. “I don’t have to pretend that way,” she’d said.

I’d bought a six-pack of pregnancy tests. Hadn’t really envisioned needing more. My periods had always been regular; a good sign, the doctor said. But now, there was just one lonely test left, since last month, because I hadn’t believed the negative test, I had repeated it the next day.

The lights went off. I jazz-handed, and they came back on.

“Next month,” I said, my voice bouncing off the tile of the bathroom. Then I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled until it felt real. I was lucky. Nathan was great. If we couldn’t get pregnant, we’d adopt. We’d already talked about it.

I imagined my sister, Ainsley—my half sister, really—would get knocked up the first month she tried. She rarely had to work for anything. Happiness just fell in her lap.

Well. Sitting in the bathroom wasn’t going to make me feel better. Coffee would, and now that I knew I wasn’t pregnant, I could have another cup. I left the bathroom and made my way downstairs. It seemed like a five-minute walk.

Nathan’s bread and butter came from designing high-end homes—faux Colonials and Victorians and Arts and Crafts “bungalows” that were 4,800 square feet on half an acre of landscaped perfection. Westchester County, just north of Manhattan, couldn’t seem to get enough of them.

We lived in an older neighborhood of Cambry-on-Hudson, Nathan’s hometown, the same town where my sister and parents lived. Nathan had torn down a house to build his masterpiece on this lot—a vast modern house with walls of glass and dark wood floors and minimalist furniture. He’d built it just after his divorce, thankfully; I didn’t want to live in a house where another wife had made her mark.

But I needed a couch for flopping. The one drawback to living in this architectural jewel was the lack of a flopping couch. Yes. We could get rid of a couple of those angular chairs and replace them with my squishy pink-and-green couch from Brooklyn.

Not that pink and green matched the color palette of the house. Still, I could probably stick it in a bedroom somewhere. We had five, after all. Seven bathrooms (seven!), a huge eat-in kitchen, a dining room that could seat sixteen. Living room, family room, study, den—I still mixed them up sometimes. Laundry room, mudroom, butler’s pantry, modest wine cellar (if any wine cellar could be considered modest), and even a media room in the basement with a huge wonking TV and six leather recliners. In the four months of our marriage, we’d managed to watch one movie down there. There was even a special bathroom off the garage to wash a dog. We didn’t have a dog. Not yet.

I loved Nathan. I loved this house. I even loved (or really, really liked) his sister, Brooke, who lived three-quarters of a mile down the street, next door to Nathan’s parents. This new life would just take some getting used to. Soon, I’d feel right at home. Soon, I’d even master the light switches. There were so many.

What I really wanted was for time to fast-forward to when things felt more real, more solid. In three years, this house would feel like home. Our child’s things would brighten up the place, a basket of toys, finger paintings hanging on the fridge and dozens of pictures of the three of us, laughing, smiling, snuggling. I would know how to turn on every light in the house.

I went into the study (or was it the den?) that served as both Nathan’s and my home office. “Good morning, Hector, noble prince of Troy,” I said to my orange betta fish. He was still alive, bucking the odds at the age of four. Nathan had bought him a gorgeous, handblown bowl when I moved in, replacing the one I got at Petco, and filled it with real plants to oxygenate the water. No wonder Hector was thriving. I watched my pretty fish for a minute, drinking my coffee, pushing against melancholy.

Tonight, when Nathan got home, I’d grab him the second he walked through the door, and we’d do it against the wall. Or on the floor. Or both. We’d be flushed and mellow at Eric’s party. And tomorrow, I’d make crepes, one of my few culinary specialties. The forecast was for rain, so we could stay in and read and watch movies and make love all weekend long—just for us, not for the baby—and he’d smile at me every time he glanced my way.

My sister and Eric lived in this same town; in fact, they knew Nathan before I did. Ainsley had never mentioned Nathan to me back when I was dating; while I wasn’t positive, I thought it was because she didn’t want me on her turf. Our parents had moved to Cambry-on-Hudson a month after I started at NYU, when my brother, Sean, was a junior at Harvard, so only Ainsley spent her teenage years here. She viewed it as the epitome of perfection.

Me, I’d lived in Brooklyn since I was twenty, about a year before it became the capital of hipsters and microbreweries. Yet here I was, in a town where the nannies had degrees from Harvard, where my mother-in-law invited me for lunch at her beloved country club each week, where my sister took hot yoga classes.

Speaking of my sister, there was a text. Can’t wait to see you and Nathan tonight! <3

Her not-so-subtle way of reminding us to come. And the emojis... I sighed. All her life, Ainsley had been not-so-subtle. She was a people-pleaser and, I had to admit, it grated. I understood why, but I just wanted to take her aside and tell her to turn it down a few notches.

And then I’d remember how she used to crawl into my bed when she was four. I texted back. We can’t wait either! Should be so much fun! Sure, it was a lie, but it was the good kind. I couldn’t bring myself to emoji back, though. I was thirty-nine, after all.

There was a message on my phone from Eloise, left ten minutes before, when I was in the bathroom.

“Kate, it’s Eloise Coburn. I’m wondering if we could schedule—” she said shedule, like a Brit “—a portrait of Nathan’s father and myself for our anniversary. Please get back to me at your earliest convenience.”

It always felt like my mother-in-law was about to catch me committing a petty crime. She was never rude; that would be to disobey the cardinal rule of Miss Porter’s, of which she was an honor’s grad and active alumna. But she was a long cry from warm and fuzzy.

Ainsley, who’d been with Eric since college, considered her own de facto mother-in-law as her best friend. She and Eric’s mom went away for shopping weekends together and met for drinks at least once a month, laughing and giggling like...well, like sisters.

That would never be Eloise and me. I took a deep breath and hit Call Back. “Hi, Eloise, it’s Kate.”

“What can I do for you, deah?” She had an upper-crust Boston accent, rather sounding like Katharine Hepburn—that clenched jaw, the slight slur.

“You wanted to schedule a portrait?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Unfortunately, I’m terribly busy today. Would you mind ringing later? I’m afraid I must run.”

“No, no, that’s fine!” My voice was chirpy. Trying too hard. “Have a great day!”

“Well, I’m off to visit children in the burn unit at the hospital, so I probably won’t, but thank you for your good wishes. Goodbye, deah.” She hung up.

“Shit,” I muttered.

I was determined that if Mrs. Coburn—Eloise—would never really warm up to me, I would never hate her. Nathan was close with his family—Brooke, his older sister, was married and had two sons, Miles and Atticus, who were in elementary school. Once a month or so, Nathan went out for a drink with Brooke’s husband, Chase. (I know. The names came right out of the WASP directory.) Nathan played golf with his father and sent his mother flowers on the first of every month. I wasn’t going to mess that up.

I thought of that pregnancy test, buried in the trash upstairs. Two lines would’ve made a lot of people happy. Two lines, and we could tell the elder Coburns that they’d have a Coburn grandchild. We could announce it just before their anniversary party, and by then, we might know if the baby was a boy or girl.

My parents, too, would be glad; Mom had thought Nathan and I were rushing (she had a point), and a baby would reassure her. My father adored kids in the “Let’s see how high I can throw this little fella!” way. Ainsley would be a very fun aunt, I knew. My brother, Sean, had two teenagers, Esther and Matthias, and three years ago, he and his wife, Kiara, had a surprise pregnancy, resulting in the delicious and adorable Sadie.

A cousin, another baby in the family, would be very welcome.

Maybe next month.

But of course, Nathan would be dead by eight o’clock tonight.

I just didn’t know it yet.

Chapter Two

Ainsley

There, tucked beneath Eric’s blue-and-red yacht flag boxer shorts, was a small turquoise box, the words Tiffany & Co. written across the top.

Thank the baby Christ child.

Not that I was looking, of course. No. I was searching. I was a bloodhound on the trail of a missing child who’d stuffed his pockets full of raw meat. I was Heathcliff looking for Cathy. I was Navy SEAL Team 6.

I’d been hoping to find this box for years now, and especially these past few months. But it was so like Eric to wait for tonight, for his “To Life” party, for a crowd. He’d definitely developed a flare for the dramatic since being diagnosed with cancer. And I had to hand it to him. Proposing to me tonight, celebrating not just his life, but our life, and our future...it would be perfect.

“Hon?” I yelled to ascertain that he was indeed downstairs, rearranging the photo montage for the tenth time. Our dog, Ollie, the world’s sweetest little dachshund mutt, was lying on the bed with the ratty blanket he dragged everywhere. He pricked up his ears, thinking I was talking to him.

“Yeah, babe?” Yep. Downstairs.

“Oh, never mind. I couldn’t find my phone,” I lied. “Got it right here.”

Should I wait to see the ring? I should. Eric wanted to surprise me, and I should let him. “Should I wait?” I whispered to Ollie. He wagged his tail. “I don’t think so, either.”

After all, I’d opened other turquoise-blue boxes before, and they hadn’t contained engagement rings. On our fourth Christmas together, upon seeing the small box, I burst into tears and threw myself into his arms.

Gold hoop earrings.

On my twenty-ninth birthday, an opal pendant.

Both lovely, mind you. Just not what a woman expects when presented with a box of a certain shape and color. So tonight, if there was anything other than an engagement ring in that box, I needed to know before a hundred people watched me open it.

Like a cat burglar, I slid the box out of the drawer and removed the turquoise lid. Inside was the black velvet box, just like those that had held the earrings and pendant.

I peeked, then inhaled sharply.

It was an engagement ring.

The diamond glittered at me, pulling me under its spell, the depth and sparkle of it, the mystery. It was perfect. A gorgeous solitaire, simple but so elegant, tiny diamonds on the band, the bigger stone dazzling. And big. A carat and a half. Maybe more. Oh, Tiffany! Well done!

“Check this out,” I whispered to Ollie, showing him. He licked his chops, and I idly petted his silky little brindle head, staring at the ring.

My eyes were wet as I closed the lid and replaced the velvet box into the blue one, then put the package back under the boxers.

Finally. Finally.

Then I pumped a fist into the air and did a little end zone victory dance around the room, happy little squeaks coming out of my throat. Ollie joined me, whining with joy, as he himself was an accomplished dancer.

At last! I was getting married! And the ring was flippin’ gorgeous! And it was about time!

Eric was the love of my life. We’d been together since our senior year of college (eleven years ago, mind you). There’d never been anyone else. He’d been the third boy I kissed, the first boy I slept with and the only boy I’d ever loved.

And after the past year and a half, during the terror of his life-changing diagnosis, during the treatment and illness, I wanted to be married more than ever. No more partner, no more boyfriend, no more significant other. I wanted him to be my husband. The word was as solid and comforting as a bullmastiff.

In my heart, we already had a marriage-level commitment, but I wanted the whole package. You know how some people say, Heck, we don’t need a piece of paper to show our commitment! They’re lying. At least, I was lying and had been lying for, oh, ten years now.

The wait was over.

I glanced at my watch, then bolted into the bathroom. If I was going to be an engaged woman tonight, I was also going to get laid tonight, and I had to shave my legs. All the way up.

* * *

Two hours later, the party was in full swing. I wore a white dress (bridal, anyone?) and red heels, and I was nursing a glass of cabernet, feigning calm, though my palms were sweaty and my heart stuttered and sped. Ollie wandered around, greeting guests, sniffing shoes, wagging his tail, all shiny and sweet-smelling, since I’d given him a bath earlier that day.

This was Eric’s big night, and soon it would be our big night.

The house looked fantastic. It wasn’t as big or fabulous as my sister’s new place, but it wasn’t shabby, either. And unlike Kate’s home, my house was lovely because of my work. Kate had walked into a fully furnished showplace designed by her architect husband, filled with custom-made furniture and tasteful modern art paintings.

Our place was my doing. Since my former career in television imploded, Eric funded 90 percent of our lifestyle, being the Wall Street wizard he was, but home was my domain. Every piece of furniture, every photo, every throw pillow, every paint color had been my decision, making this house our home.

Was our relationship a little retro? You bet. I liked it that way. And while Kate and Nathan’s house was more impressive, I liked to think ours was a little more welcoming, warmer, more colorful. Kind of like Kate and me—her always a little reserved, me always trying too hard.

The caterers zipped around with trays of pretty food and bottles of wine (good wine, too; Eric had a man-crush on Nathan and asked for some recommendations, since Nathan had an actual wine cellar). There was a martini bar on the deck, and everyone was laughing and smiling with good reason. Eric had beaten cancer, and this party was his way of thanking everyone for their love and support since that awful day when he’d found the lump.

As if reading my thoughts, Eric glanced over at me and smiled, and my heart melted and pulled like warm taffy. His dark hair was still short—it used to be longer, but after he shaved his head in anticipation of hair loss, he liked the cropped look. His black-framed glasses made him look attractively dorky, but the truth was, he was gorgeous, and since the diagnosis and his organic macrobiotic diet and exercise plan, his body was smokin’.

There was a velvet box-sized shape in his front pocket.

My fiancé. My husband.

The very first time I saw Eric Fisher, I thought, That’s the man I’m going to marry. It had never been a question of if, just a question of when.

That question would be answered tonight.

“Ainsley, the house looks amazing!” said Beth, my across-the-street neighbor, who’d been wonderful about bringing food and leaving little bouquets of flowers from her garden when Eric was sick. “What a happy day!”

“Thank you, Beth! You’ve been so great. We can’t thank you enough. Get a martini, quick!” She smiled and obeyed.

So many friends were here—Eric’s fraternity brothers, his coworkers from Wall Street, Eric’s parents and grandparents. My friends, too, from town and college and the magazine, though no one from my old job at NBC had even RSVP’d. My brother and his wife hadn’t been able to make it, but their older two kids were here, not by choice. I had the impression Sean and Kiara left Sadie with a sitter, dropped the teens off here and sneaked out to dinner rather than come to the party.

Esther, who was thirteen, was slumped in a chair, the only sign of life her thumbs moving over her phone. Matthias, at fifteen, was similarly slumped, eyeing the young female servers when he thought no one was looking.

“You guys can go down to the cellar if you want and watch TV,” I told them, stroking Esther’s curly hair. They jolted back to life and practically trampled each other in the race to the cellar door, Esther shielding her eyes as she passed the photo montage. Poor kid. No teenage girl should have to see that.

“Hello, Ainsley.”

I managed to catch my flinch at the sound of the voice. My boss was here—Captain Flatline, as we called him. Ollie trotted up to greet him, cheerfully sniffing his shoes, then putting his paws against Jonathan’s knee. Jonathan ignored him.

“Hi, Jonathan!” I said brightly, though almost everyone else at the magazine called him Mr. Kent. I didn’t. I had an Emmy, thank you very much (though I probably should’ve given that back after the debacle).

“Thank you for inviting me.” He looked like he was at a funeral, still in a suit and tie from work, face as cheerful as the grave.

“I’m glad you could come,” I lied. “Is that for us?” I nodded at the bottle of wine in his hand.

“Yes.” He handed it to me. “I hope you enjoy it.” Still no smile. “I’m sorry you couldn’t make your employee review this afternoon.”

I faked a frown. “Yeah. Me, too. That call with the pumpkin farmer went on longer than I thought.”

He lifted an eyebrow. We both knew I was dodging the review. The thing was, the job wasn’t that hard, and I did it well. Or pretty well, anyway. As the features editor, it was my job to assign articles to our vast army of freelancers, all of whom wanted to be the next host of This American Life and/or winner of the Pulitzer Prize.

Hudson Lifestyle, however, was glossy fluff. Lemonade stands and barn restorations, new restaurant openings and the history of Overlook Cemetery. Before I worked at the magazine, I’d been a producer on The Day’s News with Ryan Roberts, the second most-watched news program in the country. I could handle Ten Ideas for Fall Porch Decorating.

That being said, yes, I had some difficulty in following every one of Jonathan’s many rules to the letter. He liked us to roll in at exactly 8:30 every morning, which didn’t take into account the fact that I might change outfits or get caught on the phone with my grandmother. He didn’t allow food to be left in the employee fridge for more than four days in a row. No personal phone calls at work? Come on. No checking Facebook? What century was this?

These were the things Jonathan had discussed last year in my review, before I knew that dodging them was a friendly competition held among all Hudson Lifestyle employees. The current champion was Deshawn in Sales, who’d gone three years without one and was now flirting with Beth at the martini bar.

“Hello! Are you married?” Gram-Gram, my stepmother’s cheerful and slightly senile mom, popped over and beamed up at Jonathan.

“Gram-Gram, this is my boss. Jonathan, my grandmother, Lettie Carson.”

“Hello!” she said, taking his hand and kissing it.

He glanced at me, alarmed, then said, “Very nice to meet you.”

“You, too! Ainsley, I was wondering if you could help me, honey. I’m on a dating website, but I can’t seem to swipe. How do you swipe on your phone? My swipe is broken.”

“Um...well, show me, and I’ll help you.” She handed me her phone.

Jonathan didn’t seem compelled to move on. He watched us, expressionless.

“Tinder, Gram-Gram? It’s kind of...trashy. And hey, that’s my picture! Not yours! You have to use a picture of yourself, you know.”

Gram-Gram humphed. “I hate pictures of myself. Besides, you’re so pretty.”

“Well, you’re misleading people.”

She winked at Jonathan. “Maybe they’ll date me if they think I look like her.”

“Shame on you,” I said. “Here. Smile!” Before she could protest, I’d snapped a shot, opened Tinder and changed her profile shot.

“Fine,” she grumbled, scowling at it. “Thank you, I suppose. I’m getting more champagne! Nice to meet you, young man!”

“Go easy on the booze, Gram-Gram.” She wandered away, patting people in her wake. I force-smiled at Jonathan. “She’s quite a character.”

“Yes.”

I suppressed a sigh. Though my boss was somewhere around my age, he gave the impression of being a seventy-year-old minor British lord, an ivory-topped walking stick firmly impacted in his colon. In the two years I’d worked at his little magazine, I had yet to hear him laugh.

“Well, thank you for coming, Jonathan, and for the wine. That was very thoughtful. Here, come talk to my sister. I don’t think you’ve met her. Kate! This is Jonathan Kent, my boss.”

Yes. Let Kate have to deal with him. Like Nathan (and now Kate), Jonathan, too, was a platinum member at the Cambry-on-Hudson Lawn Club. From the corner, Rachelle, who answered phones at the magazine, made a sympathetic face. To be honest, I’d invited the boss only because he overheard me talking about the party this very morning. Jonathan was, to put it kindly, a downer.

But he had given Eric the online column—just a WordPress spin-off that Eric posted himself, the magazine’s website providing a link and a byline. Eric loved writing The Cancer Chronicles, so I guess we owed Jonathan for that, though it hadn’t been easy convincing him to say yes.

“Nice to meet you,” Kate said. “This is my husband, Nathan Coburn.”

Being that it was Cambry-on-Hudson, Nathan and Jonathan had met sometime in the past. Ah, yes. Hudson Lifestyle had done a feature on Nathan’s house a few years ago, before my time.

I wondered if I’d ask Kate to be my maid of honor, even though she’d eloped and hadn’t even asked me to come as a witness. If I asked, would she somehow make me feel dumb? Then again, she was my sister...well, my half sister, but still. Nathan could be in the wedding party, too. He was a sweetheart, that guy. He caught me looking at him and gave me a wink. In some ways, he felt more like a brother than Sean, who was eleven when I was born, fourteen when I came to live with them.

Kate was lucky to have Nathan, though I never would’ve put them together. At least she seemed to know it. She and Nathan were holding hands, which was sweet.

“Hey, Ains!” said Rob, one of Eric’s fraternity brothers. “What kind of cancer was it again?”

I bit down on my irritation. If Rob had been a true friend, he’d have read The Cancer Chronicles (or the CCs, as Eric called them). Or maybe even called during the past year and a half. Like a lot of Eric’s friends from college, he was something of a dolt.

I picked up Ollie and petted his fluffy little head. “It was testicular,” I said, still wishing I didn’t have to name boy parts. They all sounded so ugly. Penis. Scrotum. Sac. Girl parts, on the other hand, all sounded rather exotic and beautiful. When I was at NBC and we did a story on teenage pregnancy, there was a girl who wanted to name her daughter Labia. I could almost see it.

“Testicular? Shit!” Rob winced comically and turned to Eric. “Dude!” he bellowed. “Your nuts? Ouch, brother!”

“That’s the good cancer, isn’t it?” asked Rob’s wife.

“There is no good cancer,” I said sternly.

“I mean, the cure rate is really high. Like 98 percent?”

Her statistics were accurate. “Yes.”

“So it wasn’t like Lance Armstrong, then? The really dangerous kind?”

What was this? An interrogation? “It was the same type Lance had, but thank God, we caught it earlier. And all cancer is dangerous. I hope you never have to find that out.”

Sure, sure, I sounded sanctimonious, but really, people could be such jerks. Eric had talked about this in his column, how people threw around terms like “good cancer” and “great odds” and just didn’t understand.

No matter what, Eric had been afraid of dying.

There was part of him, I knew, that had wished his battle had been a little...well, a little more dramatic. He’d been prepped to be noble and uncomplaining. That was why he asked me to get him the column at Hudson Lifestyle. His journey, he said, would inspire people.

And it did. Well. I was inspired, of course. The blog didn’t get a lot of traffic, and Jonathan was irritable about it, so I lied to Eric about the statistics. He’d been fighting cancer. He didn’t need to know his views were in the dozens (sometimes not even that).

The truth was, the CCs were kind of...bland. Eric wrote about finding silver linings, living in the moment, being present, the transformation of the caterpillar to butterfly. There was a lot of detail about his treatment. Even a picture of the pre-and postoperative scrotum, which we had to take down as soon as Jonathan saw it, since it violated the magazine’s pornography rules (that was an awkward meeting, let me tell you).

Eric liked to use quotes: Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the realization that there is something more important than fear... Live to fight another day... You are braver than you know, stronger than you think... It’s always darkest before dawn. (That one made even me wince.)

It wasn’t exactly new territory, or great writing. Every Monday morning, Jonathan would fix me with a dead-eyed stare after he read the blog. I didn’t care. It wasn’t like Hudson Lifestyle was Newsweek. And besides, Eric was always very flattering when he referenced me. He called me Sunshine on the blog, rather than using my real name. To protect my privacy, he said, though I wouldn’t have minded being outed.

“Why doesn’t anyone comment?” Eric asked a few weeks after he started, and that was when I made up a bunch of fake usernames and started posting. Lucy1991, CancerSux9339, EdouardenParis, LivefromNewYork28, DaveMatthewsFan! and LovesToRead288 were actually all me.

There’d been this one woman who’d had chemo at the same place Eric went. Noreen. She’d been so, so sick, so thin it was a wonder her legs held her. No hair, no eyebrows, sores at her IV sites, yeast infections in her mouth, bleeding gums, yellow skin and slack, hollow eyes, a cough so hard I was surprised she didn’t bring up her large intestine. It was her third time around with cancer. The odds were not in her favor.

But Noreen always smiled, asked after the nurses’ kids by name, sometimes even crocheted little blankets for the preemies in the neonatal unit when she had the strength. Never lost her sense of humor, wore funny T-shirts that said My Oncologist Can Beat Up Your Oncologist and Does This Shirt Make Me Look Bald? She was never anything but gracious, kind and happy. Every time I went in to sit with Eric, I was terrified Noreen wouldn’t be there, that the cancer finally devoured her.

Against all odds, she made it. In fact, she ran a half marathon last month and raised more than twenty-five grand for cancer research. That was when Eric started training for one, too.

But Eric’s cancer journey had been...well, it had been easy. Easy as cancer journeys go, that is. No hair loss (though he did shave his head). Only two days of puking and diarrhea that might’ve been caused by some iffy sushi. He lost fifteen pounds, but then again, he needed to, and it was more through our new macrobiotic diet than because of chemo. There was one week where he took a nap every day.

So what Rob’s wife had said was true. If there was a cancer you had to have, testicular was the way to go. And Eric had sailed through it like a champ.

I knew he exaggerated on his blog, but I didn’t bring it up. He had cancer, for the love of God.

And he won. Maybe his battle wasn’t as tough as other people’s, but he won.

My throat was tight with happy tears. I set Ollie back on the floor so he could win more hearts and minds, and took a breath, wanting to press our night into my memory forever. Three Wall Streeters were laughing in the corner. Lillie, my college roommate, was giggling with her fiancé. Everyone looked so happy.

Almost everyone, that was.

“You really went all out, didn’t you?” My stepmother, Candy, appeared at my elbow. “I can’t imagine what this cost.”

“So worth it, though,” I said, determined not to let her ruin my mood.

“If you say so.” She gave me her patented, squinty look of disappointment—I did my best, but look what I had to work with.

A word about Candy.

She and Dad were each other’s once and future spouses, as it were. The first time around, they met in college, got married, had Sean and Kate. Then, when Kate was seven, they got a divorce.

Not very long after the divorce—a few months, I was told—Dad married my mother, Michelle, who died when I was three. A pickup truck hit her one Sunday afternoon as she was riding her bike. Six months after that, Dad went back to Candy and married her again.

Candy wasn’t an evil stepmother. She took care of me when I was sick and asked if I did my homework, but...well. She already had her children, and they were past the age when they needed help brushing their teeth. I was not encouraged to call her Mom. “Your mother is in heaven,” she’d say calmly if the M-word slipped out, as it sometimes did. “You can call me Candy.”

Dad, who had been a great baseball player in college but not quite good enough to play for a living, was an umpire for Major League Baseball. He traveled seven months of the year, so the bulk of my upbringing fell to Candy. And while she did take my father back, she never got over him dumping her for a younger, prettier woman. Every few years, she’d announce that she was divorcing Dad, though she never followed through.

Candy had a PhD in psychology and had authored several books on family dynamics, including The Toxic Mommy and Stuck with You: Raising the Recalcitrant Stepchild. Other cheerful titles included Freeing Yourself from Your Family and Parenting When You’ve Got Nothing Left. She was a bit of a celebrity on the parenting circuit, and also the advice columnist for Hudson Lifestyle, which she wrote under the name Dr. Lovely.

She was great out in public and took her appearance very seriously—expensive blond hair, glaring white teeth, a perfect size four, five foot two, abs of steel. At book signings and whenever confronted with a fan, she’d morph into a smiley, warm, wonderful person who never minded taking photos.

With us—with me, I should say—she remained brittle. Which was okay. She had her reasons, and she’d never been cruel or angry toward me. Just resigned. She got her man back, but with the stiff price tag in the form of a toddler.

“Oh, honey, this is gorgeous,” said Eric’s mom, Judy, pouncing on me with a hug. “You’re so wonderful, you know that? And look at you! So beautiful!”

“Thanks, Judy!”

“Candy, how are you? Isn’t this a special day?”

“It is.” My stepmother forced a smile, then backed away. Judy and I exchanged a look. We’d gossip about everything tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I’d be engaged.

“I love your dress. Perfect for tonight!” she said.

So she knew. Excellent. “Well,” I said, feigning innocence, “white for a clean start.”

She pressed her lips together so as not to blurt out the news. Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what he’d do without you, Ainsley,” she said. “You’re a treasure.”

“Oh, Judy,” I said, my voice husky. I gave her a hug, and my sister aimed her camera at us. Kate did take the best pictures.

“Where’s my second-best girl?” Eric’s dad asked, joining us. “You look beautiful, darling. Both of you do.”

The Fishers were the best. “You’re a daughter to us,” his mother had been saying for the past decade. They had the kind of marriage I wanted—affectionate, open, happy and fun. My boyfriend had great role models, that was for sure. We went on vacation with them every year, and we always had a great time, a fact that befuddled my friends.

Judy and I would go crazy planning the wedding. It could be Jewish, since that would be important to them, and would win me even more points as best daughter-in-law ever. We’d have the canopy and the breaking of the glass and the fun dance with the chairs...

I looked over at my honey. He stood next to the huge montage of pictures of himself he’d put up. Eric before cancer, a little chubby. Going into the hospital for surgery. Lying in the recovery room afterward. Hooked up to an IV bag. (He asked me to take all these, for the record.) Just after he shaved his head. Wearing his Fuck You, Cancer T-shirt, sitting in his favorite chair, seven prescription bottles next to him.

He met my eyes and smiled, then clinked a fork on his champagne glass.

Oh, God, it was time. I looked around, my heart revved up and my toes clenched in the red shoes. Jonathan and Candy were talking in a corner. The frat boys were doing shots. Rachelle was taking a picture of Kate and Nathan, calling them Kate and Nate, and asking Kate about camera settings.

“Folks, if I could have your attention for a minute,” Eric said. I swallowed hard. Everyone quieted and gathered around, ripples of laughter and conversation fluttering out. I hoped Kate would get a picture of the big moment. Oh, man, I was nervous! All these years waiting, and I was shaking!

“Folks,” Eric said again, “I just want to thank you all for coming to this party. As of noon today, I am officially cancer free!”

A cheer went up, and glasses were raised, and I felt tears slipping down my cheeks.

“It’s been a long, hard road,” he said, “and I wouldn’t be here without all of you. So this party is for you, all my friends and family who stood by me in this dark time. To life!”

“To life!” we all chorused back.

“L’chaim!” Aaron said. So Fiddler on the Roof! I loved that musical!

“And if you’ll indulge me here,” Eric continued, “there are a few people I need to thank specially. My parents, of course, the best people in the whole world. I love you, Mom and Dad. More than I could ever say.”

Judy sobbed happily, and Aaron wiped his eyes. “Love you, too, son,” he managed.

“My awesome team at St. Luke’s, Dr. Benson, Dr. Ramal, Dr. Williams, and all the incredible nurses and staff at the infusion center.” A round of applause followed, though none of the team had been able to make the party.

“My workmates, who were so great while I went through this ordeal.”

The Wall Streeters gave themselves a rowdy cheer, and Blake shouted, “I’d give my left nut to be half the man you are!”

Eric pretended to smile; he hated that joke. He went on to thank his boss, his assistant, the receptionist.

Come on, Eric. If he went through the entire list (as he seemed intent on doing), he’d be here all night. Alas, he loved to give speeches. Next thanked: his cousin, who’d flown up from Boca to visit—for nine days, and let me tell you, that wasn’t exactly a favor. Eric’s golf buddy—Kate’s husband, Nathan—for keeping his spirits up, though to the best of my knowledge, they’d played golf only once.

Next on the list: everyone who read and commented on The Cancer Chronicles. I sneaked a look at Jonathan, who remained stone-faced. Eric thanked Beth for her good cheer, the Hoffmans for plowing our driveway (once; I shoveled the other times). He thanked Ollie, “my little buddy when I was too weak to do anything other than nap.”

Come on, Eric.

“And last on the list, but first in my heart, of course, is someone very special I need to thank.”

He looked at me, his dark eyes wet, and my irritation vanished. My heart stopped, then surged forward, hot and full of love.

“Someone who stood by me every minute, who kept my spirits up when I stared down Death, when I was too weak to lift my head.”

Granted, there really hadn’t been a moment when he was too weak to lift his head, but yeah. I’d been great. Judy’s quiet sobs resumed, and she gave me a watery smile. Aaron squeezed my shoulders.

“Babe, come over here,” he said, and I went, my heart thudding, practically levitating from happiness and adrenaline. I was hyperaware of everything, like Peter Parker is in Spider-Man—the tag sticking up from Rachelle’s neckline, the nice orange blossom smell of Beth’s perfume, Ollie being fed an appetizer by Esther, Jonathan’s constipated expression, my sister’s sardonic smile.

Eric touched his pocket, where the box-shaped lump sat so promisingly, and I smiled through my happy tears.

It was about damn time.

Chapter Three

Kate

I tried to remember a time when I loved parties. College, maybe?

This kind of party was the worst. I didn’t know many people aside from my family members, and I’d talked to Esther and Matthias as long as they tolerated me, then trailed them down to the basement cellar, where they booted up Mad Max: Fury Road. When guilt forced me upstairs, I saw Nathan getting a plate of food for my grandmother.

An aching, lovely pressure squeezed my chest. He saw me looking and smiled.

“Kate, your husband is so wonderful!” Gram-Gram chirped. “I didn’t know what I wanted, so he got me some of everything!” She popped a mozzarella ball into her mouth and chewed. “Delicious!”

“My pleasure, Lettie,” Nathan said, sliding his arm around me. “Is it me, or does all the food here look like testicles?” he whispered.

I choked on a laugh. Come to think of it, yes. Mozzarella balls, melon balls, grapes, cherry tomatoes, little round onion puffs, scallops...

Gram-Gram patted my cheek. “It’s so good to see you happy, dear,” she said. “Nathan, thank you for marrying this girl! We thought she’d be an old maid forever.”

“Yes, thanks, Nathan,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “Community service and all that.”

“It beat picking up trash on the side of the highway.” He kissed my temple and dropped his voice so Gram-Gram wouldn’t hear. “And thank you for the great shag earlier.”

My cheeks warmed. “You’re very welcome.”

My grandmother ate another round thing. “You’re in love! Oh, Kate, we’d given up on you!”

“That’s enough, Gram-Gram.” I smiled as I said it.

Eric started clinking his glass. “And here we go,” I murmured, finishing my wine. Considered taking a photo of Eric, then opted against it. Clearly, he had too many as it was.

As he thanked the many people on his list, I felt myself getting drowsy. Nathan glanced at me and smiled. “No sleeping,” he whispered. “If I can stay awake, so can you.”

I smothered another laugh.

“...and my golf buddy, Nathan.”

Nathan raised his glass and smiled. “We played once,” he whispered as Eric kept naming names.

Uh-oh. I felt a case of the giggles coming on.

Nathan squeezed me a little closer. “Is my wife’s glass empty? Uh-oh. I better fix that.”

“Yes indeed,” I said, handing him the glass. He went off to the back, where the makeshift bar was set up.

Eric paused and looked meaningfully at my sister. “And last on the list, but first in my heart, of course, is someone very special I need to thank. Someone who stood by me every minute, who kept my spirits up when I stared down Death, when I was too weak to lift my head.”

Laying it on a little thick, Eric? I chastised myself for the unkind thought.

He summoned Ainsley to his side.

It was about damn time Eric proposed. I mean, clearly, this was the proposal, finally. The fact that it was taking place in front of a collage of himself and himself alone bothered me, but it wasn’t surprising. Ainsley had always been something of a groupie where Eric was concerned.

To each her own. Ainsley was glowing as she made her way to Eric, and that was what I should focus on. I adjusted my lens subtly, hoping to catch the moment.

“Everyone, raise your glass to Ainsley,” Eric said.

Nathan was still waiting at the makeshift bar. He’d have to hurry so I could toast my sister. I’d sucked down that first glass fast to help me deal with that damn collage. There was a picture of his scrotum, pre-and post-op, with a little infomercial text underneath it. A quick wine buzz had been required. Even now, the scrotal sac photo seemed to beg me to look at it.

Behind me, I heard my mother sigh. She had a very distinct sigh, years of practice. Dad wasn’t here; he was calling a game somewhere out West. A shame. Ainsley, product of the wife he truly loved, was his favorite.

Eric took my sister’s hand. “Babe, I couldn’t ask for a better woman in life. Ever since we met, I knew you were special, but my cancer journey has shown me that you’re not just special...you’re extraordinary.”

Did the word cancer have to be in every other sentence? Still, Ainsley’s chest was hitching; I could imagine how hard it was for her not to cry; she could cry at Antiques Roadshow. She bit her lip and smiled, her mouth wobbling a little. Sweet kid. Well, she was thirty-two. Sometimes I forgot, since she seemed so...naive.

Eric gazed out at the crowd. “Everyone, a toast to the woman who is not only kind and generous and strong and beautiful, but also...” He reached into his pocket, and I raised my camera. “But also the woman I want to spend the rest of—”

There was a little cry of surprise from behind me, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement.

Nathan.

He tripped. That was embarrassing, right at the big moment.

It was just a flash of a second. Wine sloshed over the rim of the glass Nathan was carrying. A woman jerked as it splashed on her back. Nathan stumbled, and someone stepped neatly out of his way, and he fell.

There was a thunk, and I couldn’t see my husband anymore.

A ripple of laughter rolled through the crowd. “Someone’s cut off,” a Wall Streeter said.

“Shame to waste good wine.”

“Make sure he pays for that!”

My camera was still pointed at Ainsley. I looked at her, and she wasn’t smiling anymore.

Her face was white.

Her boss, Jonathan, knelt down where Nathan had fallen.

I felt my heart roll. Get up, Nathan. Get up.

“Call 911,” Jonathan barked, and then my camera hit my side as it fell from my fingers, the strap yanking against my neck.

Nathan was lying facedown.

Wait.

He’d only tripped. He wasn’t a drama queen, not like Eric.

But he was just lying there.

A seizure?

Ollie the dog barked.

“Honey?” I said, but my voice was thin and weak. My wobbly legs carried me closer.

Jonathan rolled Nathan over, pressed his fingers against his throat.

Was he checking for a pulse? Why? Nathan just tripped, that was all. Big deal. Maybe his legs were a little weak because, yes, we’d done it against the wall not more than two hours ago, and it wasn’t as easy as it looked on TV.

Jonathan started CPR.

Oh, Jesus. Jesus, Jesus, this couldn’t be happening. This had to be a mistake. I’d never seen anyone do compressions before. It looked painful. Would Nathan’s ribs be okay? Should Jonathan ease off a little? “Honey?” I said. I was on the floor all of a sudden, on my knees. Please. Please. Please.

Nathan’s eyes were only open a slit. “Nathan?” I whispered.

“Help him,” someone said. “Call 911.” But that had already been said. 911 had already been called.

I could smell chardonnay.

“Help him!” my mother barked. “Somebody, breathe for him!” And somebody did, one of the frat brothers, the one who made the left nut joke.

Someone was saying “Nathan? Nathan?” in a high, hysterical keen, and I was pretty sure it was me. The dog was still barking. Then my sister’s arms were around my shoulders, and she was telling people to step back, make room, get a blanket.

But a blanket wouldn’t help him.

Nathan was dead.

Chapter Four

Ainsley

I’d never seen anyone die before. Cross that off my bucket list. Not that it was ever on it, God!

I watched Nathan go from smiling to startled to dead. Just like that. My Spidey-senses had been going crazy, soaking in the happiest moment of my life.

There was the tag on Rachelle’s dress. Jonathan’s face of constipation. Nathan, carrying Kate’s glass of wine.

Then he tripped on Rob’s foot. It wasn’t Rob’s fault; it was crowded in here. The wine sloshed over the rim and sloshed down Beth’s back, making her yelp, and Frank turned. If Frank hadn’t turned, Nathan would’ve hit him, but he did turn, and Nathan fell forward, nothing to stop him.

His head hit the edge of the granite counter with a soft thunk, and his eyes widened, and just like that, he was dead.

I knew it before it was pronounced. I knew CPR wouldn’t work.

Eric and I followed the ambulance, Candy and Kate in Jonathan’s car, since he was parked on the street and able to get out without ten other cars needing to move first.

As we drove, I knew the ER doctors would try and fail. I don’t know how I knew, but I did.

“This is unbelievable,” Eric said, his face grim as he took a turn too hard.

I realized I should call Sean. “The kids are okay,” I said the second he answered, hearing laughter and silverware clinking in the background. So they had gone out to dinner instead of coming to the party. “But Nathan’s in the ER, Sean. Hudson Hospital. It...it’s pretty bad. Esther and Matthias are at our house with Eric’s parents.”

“Oh, my God. What happened?”

“We’re not sure. He...he fell and hit his head. They gave him CPR.”

“Oh, fuck,” Sean said. He was a doctor, and his words didn’t bode well. “I’m on my way. Jesus.” He hung up.

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe it,” Eric said, careening into the hospital parking lot. “He has to make it. He has to pull through.”

He wouldn’t. Please God, let me be wrong about that.

We were put in a private waiting room while they worked on Nathan. I held my sister’s hand, and she looked at me, her eyes open too wide, as if she didn’t know who I was.

Sean and Kiara came, hugged and waited. The Coburns, thank God, someone had called the Coburns; Nathan’s parents, sister and brother-in-law came in, white-faced, panic-stricken, and Candy opened her arms without a word and just held Mrs. Coburn, murmuring quietly.

Then the doctor came in and confirmed what I already knew.

I’ll spare you the next hour.

In a weak voice, I offered to drive Kate home and stay with her, but Candy said she’d take care of it. Sure. A person needed her mother at a time like this. That made sense. I called Dad’s phone and left a message for him to call me, no matter how late, that it was important.

It occurred to me that Dad had gone through this, too, when my mother died. I remembered when the police came to tell us. One of them gave me a little toy, a cat whose head bobbled, how I had loved it and hadn’t wanted to stop playing with it as my father tried to get my attention. He’d been crying and said Mommy had gone to heaven.

Was Nathan there yet? Did it happen that fast? Or was he lingering, here still, or with Kate?

I wiped my eyes and blew my nose.

“I’m gonna call my folks,” Eric said. His eyes were red. He squeezed my shoulder and went outside.

My feet were throbbing. Right, I was still wearing those slutty red shoes. And the white dress.

I left our “quiet room”; it hadn’t been quiet, not with the sound of poor Brooke wailing, and Mrs. Coburn’s sobs, and Mr. Coburn breaking down, saying, “My boy, my boy.” Oh, God, this was unbearably sad! The main waiting room of the ER was filled with the usual suspects—someone holding a bloody towel to her hand; a teenager slumped next to his mother, a little green around the gills; an older lady in a wheelchair with an aide, who was checking her phone.

And Jonathan. I’d almost forgotten about him. He stood up as I came over.

I swallowed, my throat aching. “He didn’t make it,” I whispered.

“No, I...I assumed. From all the... From their faces.” He put his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you for trying.” Tears sliced a hot path down my cheeks, and my face spasmed.

A normal person would’ve hugged me then. A family tragedy had just occurred, for the love of God, and no one knew it better than the giver of the unsuccessful CPR.

But Jonathan was not normal. He looked like an alien’s take on what a human should look like. Not enough emotion flowing through to really pass.

Instead of a hug, he looked at me, his pale blue eyes unblinking, and offered his hand, as if we’d just been introduced.

I sighed and shook it.

Then he brought up his other hand and held mine in both of his. For a long minute, he just looked at my hand. Human hand: warm, smooth. Interesting.

“I’m very sorry,” he said without looking up. He did have a nice voice.

“Thank you.”

He let go. “See you Monday.”

“Jonathan. My brother-in-law just died. I won’t be in.”

“Oh. Right.” Human wants time off. Fascinating. “Call Rachelle and let her know your schedule.”

“I will,” I said through gritted teeth.

He left—finally—and Eric came back in. His thick lashes were starred from crying, and my heart pulled hard. He was such a softy. “I just can’t believe all this,” he said, his voice rough.

“I know.”

“I can’t believe it.” He hugged me for a long minute, and my tears dampened his shirt. “I love you,” he said, his voice rough.

I started to cry in earnest.

My poor sister. Nathan was so nice! How could he be dead, just like that?

Eric’s arms tightened around me. “I can’t believe this happened to me.”

I jerked back and looked at him.

“To us, I mean,” he corrected. “Tonight of all nights. You know?”

Right. The ring. The party. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

“Let’s go home,” I said, acutely aware of just how lucky I was to be able to say that, to have someone to go home with. Kate didn’t have that anymore. Gone in an instant.

She was supposed to be a newlywed, not a widow. Nathan had died at Eric’s “To Life” party. He was gone. Forever. How could that be?

One image kept coming back to me, over and over.

Jonathan, his hair flopping over his forehead as he did compressions, his face tight and grim.

He’d known, too—Nathan was dead. All the other stuff had just been for the living.

For my sister.

Chapter Five

Kate

It didn’t surprise me to be widowed.

I mean, it surprised the shit out of me. Who the hell dies like that? What the hell had happened?

But what I meant was, Nathan always did seem a little too...serendipitous? Too good to be true? Just what the doctor ordered?

All of the above.

You have to understand. I was single for twenty years. Meeting the man of my dreams...well, come on. The phrase becomes ridiculous after you pass twenty-six or so.

I dated in high school and college, casual, mostly happy relationships that never ended horribly. After college, I dated nice men, though there was always a sense that maybe someone better would come along, someone I hadn’t yet met, my soul mate. There was never that gobsmacked thunk, oh, God, he’s it, as my sister had described when she met Eric at the age of twenty-one. My parents were hardly role models.

So if it happened, it happened.

It didn’t happen.

In my two decades as an adult, I had three serious relationships. First was Keith, a fellow grad from NYU. He was terrifyingly handsome, the kind of guy who made people walk into lampposts. Beautiful smooth skin, green eyes, dreadlocks, six foot three, hypnotically perfect body. That relationship was tumultuous and spicy, lots of fights and making up and storming out (mostly on his part). I finally broke things off for good, unable to picture a future full of that kind of drama. He went on to become a model, and I got great pleasure out of pointing him out in magazines and telling friends that, no, seriously, I had seen him naked.

My next boyfriend, Jason, was the opposite. We started dating in our late twenties, which is still infantile by New York standards. He was a very nice guy. Things were steady and reliable...and bland. After a year and change, we just ran out of things to talk about and spent lots of time watching TV in a pleasant boredom until he finally euthanized the relationship by moving to Minnesota.

And last, there was Louis. We met at a gallery opening, just as cheesy as it sounds, when I was thirty-two. We enjoyed each other’s company. Moved in together after a year, laughed a lot, felt comfortable enough that he knew that my eating popcorn drizzled with Nutella meant my period was nigh, and I knew that if he ate cabbage, he’d be in the bathroom six hours later. It felt real, and happy. Louis was smart, a psych nurse with a lot of compassion for his patients and great stories from work.

Then he got a tattoo. And another. And a third and fourth. And then, just after he got a Chinese character depicting commitment, he dumped me for his tattoo artist.

Then came the online dating years. Sure, sure, we all know the happy couple who met online, who exchanged fun, flirty emails and then finally met, and voilà! They were in love. Oh, the fun stories of the losers they’d endured before they found each other! Daniel the Hot Firefighter and Calista, who lived on the same Park Slope street I did, had met online, though they divorced after a few years so Calista could devote more time to her yoga. But there were others who’d met online, married, and were still very happy together. I was game. I gave it a shot.

It was a fail. Same for my closest friend, Paige. Like me, Paige was abruptly and completely unable to find a guy. Like me, she was a successful professional—a lawyer—attractive and interesting. Like me, she’d had a slew of nice and not-bad dates, never to hear from the guy again. We both bought a few dating books and followed the rules assiduously. We both wasted our money.

Dating in your thirties becomes a second job. Some of the books remind you to Have fun! If you’re not having fun, what’s the point? The point was to find a mate. There was no fun involved, thank you very much. The fun would come after, when we could wear Birkenstocks and give up Spanx.

Honestly, it was more work than my actual career. I knew what I was doing with photography. This, though... The writing of profiles, the witty exchange of emails, the blocking of perverts. The careful mental list of what to reveal, how to make yourself sound interesting without sounding dysfunctional—should I mention my terror of earthworms? Do I admit that my parents have married each other twice? What about the fact that I binge-watched five seasons of Game of Thrones in one weekend without showering or eating a single vegetable?

Sometimes, the men who seemed nice at first would reveal themselves to be not quite so balanced. After a really fun online exchange with Finn and a perfect first date that involved a tiny Colombian restaurant, much laughter and great chemistry, I got a text that was one giant paragraph without a single capital letter or punctuation mark.

kate you are really great i hate dating dont you we should definitely be exclusive because tonight showed me youre a good person i had a girlfriend who was such a slut she blew my brother in the gas station bathroom btw we were on the way to my grandmothers funeral then they wondered why i was mad seriously people can be such assholes but tonight your eyes told me you have compassion and are fun and wont judge me for things i maybe shouldnt have done

You get the idea. I printed it out for posterity. It was five pages long.

Even when I’d mastered the art of conversing politely yet genuinely and humorously yet seriously while making sure I listened carefully and attentively...well. All those adverbs were exhausting.

And even then, even if I liked a guy and the date went well, nothing came of it. In five years of online dating, I had two second dates. Zero third dates.

Paige and I would cheerfully obsess—Why hadn’t he called again? He said he would! We had a good time! We laughed! Hard! Two times!—and complain—His hair smelled like pot. A noodle got stuck in his beard, and then he got angry when I told him about it. He stormed out of the restaurant because they didn’t have local sheep cheese. We’d laugh and order another round, trying to protect ourselves from too much discouragement or hope.

The single guys we knew, like Daniel, the now-divorced and still-hot firefighter, dated twentysomethings—the False Alarms, Paige and I called them, since nothing serious ever developed after Daniel’s divorce. The False Alarms were all pretty much the same—shockingly beautiful, thigh-gapped, vapid. There was a new one every month or two.

Occasionally, we’d run into Daniel, his cloud of pheromones thick enough to make us choke. Paige called him Thor, God of Thunder, and yeah, he had that kind of effect. Once, Paige and I were sitting in at Porto’s Bar & Restaurant, and Daniel walked in at the very moment the jukebox started playing “Hot Stuff” by Donna Summer. Even the machinery knew.

He was friendly, sure, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Hey, Kate!” he’d say, his eyes flickering from their usual good cheer. After all, I’d known him as half of a couple, back when he and Calista were newlyweds. I’d seen him sitting on their front steps, waiting for her to come home, unsure of where she was. I knew that he’d been heartbroken, and she had not. Calista moved to Sedona after the divorce, taught meditational movement and spiritual cleanses. I still got a Namaste card for winter solstice each year.

But Daniel and his ilk—the cheerful man-children of Brooklyn—didn’t give women like Paige and me a second glance. Marriage? Tried that, didn’t work. Those guys just kept buying lemon drop martinis for their just-graduated girlfriends, women a decade (or more!) younger than I was, who considered Britney Spears songs classics. They didn’t care about things like fatherhood potential, didn’t care about depth of character. They were simply smitten by the FDNY insignia on Daniel’s T-shirt and the bulging muscles that were showcased by it. (To be fair, I’d once seen Daniel shirtless, and I stopped caring, too.)

The other single men I knew...well, the truth was, I knew only a few. Most of them were ex-cons, as I volunteered at the Re-Enter Center of Brooklyn, a place where parolees could take classes to help them adapt to life on the outside. I taught small business management with a little photography thrown in for fun. And while I was all for forgiveness, chances were quite small that I’d marry a guy with a teardrop tattooed under his eye.

Paige and I would assure each other that being single was great. Our lives were full and fun and we loved our careers. Look at other women! Just because they were in relationships didn’t make their lives meaningful! Paige had two sisters and seven nieces and nephews, and both sisters were wretched and exhausted. One was contemplating a mommy makeover to lift her boobs and shed her fat and get her husband to sleep with her again; the other, Paige was pretty sure, was about to come out of the closet.

My own sister...well, okay, Ainsley was happy, but kind of...how to put this? Naive. Retro in her worship of all things Eric, always putting herself second, despite the fact that she’d had a very impressive job. She took care of Eric in a way he never took care of her; he was the star in the couple, and she had a supporting role. It bugged me.

I was different. Paige, too. We were self-fulfilled. And what about that fabulous trip we’d taken last year to London, huh? We should plan another! Vienna this time? Or Provence?

Then a couple would walk by, a baby strapped to one parent, an adorable toddler wearing an ironic T-shirt holding hands with the other, and we’d falter. “Screw it,” Paige would say. “If only there were mail-order husbands.”

If only I had a gay male friend who’d pony up and coparent with me! Not only would we have a wonderful child, we could write a great screenplay about it. Alas, no—my gay friends, Jake and Josh, already had Jamison, so that was out.

I told myself it was okay. After all, I didn’t need a baby. The world was overpopulated, there were teenagers I could adopt, etc.

But then I’d visit my brother and watch him and Kiara with their kids. The rush of love and gratitude I’d always felt over the years when my niece or nephew would run to see me, or more recently, at least come out of their rooms to see me. Sadie still snuggled, at least. Granted, I wasn’t like my sister, who had to sniff the head of every baby we saw and chat up the mother for details on the birth, but I loved kids.

Brooklyn was full of babies. I wanted someone to cuddle, someone I could carry and stare at during naptimes—not in a creepy way, but in a loving, maternal glow. Someone who would call me Mommy and reach for my hand without thinking, the way Esther still did with Kiara, the way Sadie reached out for my brother. I found myself eyeing pregnant teenagers, wondering what they’d say if I casually asked if they’d consider giving me their unborn child.

It was always there, the primal call to procreate and protect. The maternal instinct is the strongest force in nature, they say. But I wanted the whole package, too. I wanted there to be a daddy. Aside from the maternal thing, there was that secret desire to be...well...adored.

It was not something that was cool to admit. With each passing year, the idea of being smitten with someone, having someone smitten with me, became more and more distant, even a little absurd, as if I still expected Santa to come on Christmas Eve.

Birthdays became a bit of a shock. Thirty-five, thirty-six...they were fine. They were great, even. I knew who I was, my reputation was growing, I was making a nice income, teaching classes, traveling.

But thirty-seven...and then thirty-eight...the very digits had a tint of desperation to them. Late thirties sounded so much older than midthirties. Checking the box “never married” made me feel as isolated as an Ebola patient. I found myself getting more and more obsessed, looking at every passing male as my potential mate—the guy at the dry cleaners, the guy who delivered my pizza, the guy who bumped into me in front of Whole Foods.

And then came thirty-nine, and something great happened.

I just...stopped.

My friends and siblings took me out for a surprise dinner—Paige; Ainsley and Eric; Jake and Josh; my occasional assistant, Max, and his wife; Sean and Kiara. They toasted me and gave me insulting cards. Paige gave me a box of Depends diapers, which was a little mean, I thought. She was only two months younger than I was. Jake and Josh gave me a full cadre of crazy-expensive skin care products specifically designed for aging skin. From Sean and Kiara, a day at a spa for a rejuvenation package. From Ainsley and Eric, same spa, same treatment.

“No embalming fluid?” I asked, getting a laugh.

“This is from the gentleman at the bar,” our server said, setting a fresh martini in front of me. I turned; there was Daniel the Hot Firefighter, who winked at me and resumed fondling the ass of his latest False Alarm. Sure. He’d buy me a drink. He’d never sleep with me. I’d aged out fifteen years ago.

I waved my thanks, looked back at my friends and family, smiled and simply gave up.

No more dating. I took down my online profiles, stopped scanning Prospect Park’s softball teams and forbid myself to watch anything on the Hallmark Channel.

I was surprised by what a relief it was.

Suddenly, I was happier than I’d been in years. I’d lived in the same gorgeous apartment since college, bought with a hefty loan from my parents just before Brooklyn prices boomed. If I ever needed the money, I could sell it for nearly five times what I paid for it. My classes at the Re-Enter Center were always full. I had a small but tight circle of friends and a slightly dysfunctional but pretty good family.

I had a well-established career I loved, clients who were generally overjoyed with my work. There was nothing like showing a couple their wedding photos—proof of their love—or seeing a mom tear up over the photo of her laughing child, that one moment in time that tells her everything she hopes. I loved how my camera could capture a fleeting moment and all the emotions it held, how a good photo could stop time forever.

At night, I’d come home to the third floor of my brownstone, make myself some dinner or eat leftovers, sit on the steps in the nice weather, talking to the neighbors—the Kultarr family who lived on the first floor, Mrs. Wick from down the street and her poodle, Ishmael. In the winter, I’d plunk myself down in my gray velvet chair, open a book and drink a glass of not-bad wine. Movies, the occasional concert, walks in Prospect Park, drinks with friends.

For children, I had my nieces and nephew. Ainsley and Eric had been together for a thousand years, and I imagined they’d have kids pretty soon. I often babysat for Jake and Josh and got my baby fix from the adorable Jamison, who loved me because I never tired of giving him horsey rides, extra dessert, and would read story after story until he was sound asleep.

If this was all there was, it was plenty. Constantly scanning for more—the baby or the guy—had chipped away at my soul. Life was good. Single, Solitary Me was enough. Call me a Buddhist, but it worked.

Shortly after that birthday, I shot a wedding of a woman who reminded me of my earlier self. She was thirty-seven, quick to tell me she and her fiancé had been together for twelve years, lest I think she was alone until now. (I always wondered about those couples, my sister and Eric included. A decade is a long time to wonder if you should marry someone.)

The bride was grim in her victory. Huge fluffy dress, six bridesmaids, four flower girls, high Anglican mass at St. Thomas on Fifth Avenue. Her tiny, elderly parents walked her down the aisle to Wagner’s Bridal Chorus. The sense of I’ve earned this, goddamn it was as thick as fog in London.

As was often the case, I could see through the camera what wasn’t visible to my naked eye; the groom was itchy, his goofy antics masking his resentment. I guessed she’d given him an ultimatum about marriage; I imagined they’d fought bitterly about it until he caved.

The bride’s smile was tight at the corners, her eyes flat, her forehead Botoxed. Even the kiss at the altar had been quick and hard. Some of the guests rolled their eyes, and rather than the lightness that so often radiates from weddings, regardless of the age of the bride and groom, this one was dull and heavy.

Every wedding tradition was honored—the engraved program announcing the readings, the lifting of the veil, Handel’s Trumpet Voluntary blaring at the end. At the reception, which was held at the Peninsula Hotel, the bride and groom were introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Whitfield, the three hundred guests dutifully applauding, the bride snarling at her sister for not securing the train properly. There was the first dance, the father-daughter dance, mother-son dance, the cutting of the cake, the tossing of the bouquet.

As I held up the camera to photograph the bride getting ready to chuck her flowers, I could see through the viewer that, yep, she was rubbing it in, calling some of her reluctant friends by name to get on out there. I am no longer one of you, hags! And the world shall know that you are still single!

Those older (my age) friends muttered resentfully as they stood on the dance floor, third martinis in hand, not even pretending to try when the bouquet was tossed. The bride’s college-age niece caught it, still young enough to think it was fun.

Then the call went out for the single guys to catch the garter—another baffling tradition: Would you like to have my wife’s pointless underwear accessory as a memento? Maybe keep it under your pillow and sniff it from time to time? The men were the usual suspects—the teenage boys, the already drunken groomsmen, an elderly uncle, the guys whose dates were pretending not to watch but were shrewdly assessing how hard the men would try to make the catch.

Someone caught it; I didn’t see who, as he was in the middle of the pack. But then came the obligatory dance for him and the bouquet-catcher, so I dutifully took a few pictures, congratulating them both on their dexterity. The niece was quite beautiful, the guy good-looking without being too handsome, his reddish hair and blue eyes giving him the boy-next-door appeal. My money was on him taking the niece home.

Imagine my shock, then, when the garter-catcher left the niece at the end of the song and came right over to me. Asked about my camera. Listened as I described it, then admitted he took pictures only with his phone. Further admitted he was talking about cameras only to see if I was single and might want to have a drink with him.

“If that’s code for ‘I have a room here, want to hook up?’” I said, “then sadly, the answer is no.”

“There’s a code?” he asked, grinning.

“There is.”

“Well, what’s code for ‘Will you have a drink with me after the wedding? Or sometime this week?’”

It’s Hi, I’m an alien, I thought.

Because good-looking, age-appropriate men didn’t date thirty-nine-year-olds. (Daniel the Hot Firefighter, anyone?) Even if, unlike Daniel, a guy my age wanted to settle down, they focused their sights on women in their twenties or early thirties, still secure in their fertility. Not women who’d been single for the entire two decades of their adult lives.

Up until this moment, I had never been approached by a stranger and asked out. Not once. It just wasn’t how it happened anymore.

I gave him my business card and smiled, hopefully hiding my befuddlement, then went off to photograph the hissing bride and pissy groom twining arms to sip champagne. I would’ve bet my left ovary that I would never hear from the garter-catcher again.

He called me the next day and asked me out for a drink on the Lower East Side. Not knowing how to handle such a bizarre turn of events, I accepted.

The restaurant was agonizingly trendy; I’d Googled it earlier in the day and saw it marked as one of New York’s hippest bars with egotistical cocktails and flattering lighting.

“Nice place,” I said, though it wasn’t really my style.

“I picked it because it was a straight shot across the East River for you,” he said.

“That was very thoughtful,” I said, sliding into the booth. “I’m guessing you’re either gay, a serial killer, a gay serial killer or a bigamist, charming his way across America, occasionally calling his children by the wrong names, his wives thinking he’s just distracted because he works so very hard.”

He laughed, and I felt a purr of attraction low in my stomach. “No,” he said. “Just one ex-wife. Sorry to let you down.”

His name was Nathan Vance Coburn III, an architect and fourth-generation son of Cambry-on-Hudson. I told him my folks lived there, that my sister and her boyfriend had recently bought a house there, as well. We played Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, figuring out who we knew in common. He read my mother’s column and had met Eric at a fund-raiser.

I didn’t bother trying to impress him or monitor myself; those days were done, those long mental lists of what to say and ask, which topics to avoid. His average looks were appealing, and he wore a suit but no tie. Long blond eyelashes gave him a sweet, almost shy look, though he seemed relaxed and funny.

Men like this just weren’t single.

It seemed contradictory, because I personally knew at least five really great women in their late thirties and early forties who were looking for love. Statistics would say there’d be at least five similarly great single men in the same age group, but statistics would be wrong. I didn’t know one man my age I’d want to date, and believe me, my criteria had been low. Forget about living with his mother or having a job. We were talking “no recent murders” by the time I called it quits.

So Nathan Vance Coburn III... I was obviously suspicious.

I shook his hand at the end of the date and said it had been very nice talking with him. He called me two days after that. We met for dinner, and he insisted on paying. I let him kiss me good-night, and he did it just right; no tongue, long enough to convince me, short enough to avoid embarrassment.

I smiled all the way home, the only person on the subway to do so.

We started dating, and by dating I meant just meeting and talking and some kissing. We held hands sometimes. No sex, because I was having fun the way things were. My newly acquired Zen kept me chill about the whole thing—if it worked, yay. If not, no biggie.

Nathan seemed freakishly great. I quizzed him on the social issues that mattered to me, showing him pictures of my brother’s biracial kids. Nathan’s only comment: “Gorgeous,” with a sweet, almost wistful smile. I mentioned my gay friends. My voting history. My feeling that people who stole handicapped parking spaces should be hobbled. I told him about my fear of earthworms. He sympathized and admitted his fear of potato eyes.

Nathan didn’t mind the old-fashioned courtship. Sometimes, he’d bring me a bouquet of flowers. Once, a small cardboard box tied in twine, containing a perfect red velvet cupcake. I’d send him photos from our dates, since I was never without my camera—the old woman on the bench, the sun glinting off One World Trade Center. I took him to the best Polish restaurant in Brooklyn and introduced him to the wonders of homemade pierogi. We went for a walk in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, the golden aspen leaves drifting down around us, and went to the top of the Empire State Building, something he’d never done, which I found incomprehensible. He was an architect, after all.

“We ever gonna sleep together?” he asked amiably as we surveyed the miracle of New York’s skyline.

“Someday, maybe,” I said, running a finger along his wrist, feeling the heavy thud of his pulse. “If you’re very lucky. Keep up with the cupcakes.”

The next day, two dozen cupcakes were delivered to my studio.

The truth was, I was almost afraid to sleep with him. What if I found out that he liked to use a riding crop on his lovers, or could get it up only if I called him Caesar?

Nope. When the day came, after seven and a half weeks and nineteen dates, he asked me to take the train up to his place in Cambry-on-Hudson. Asked me to pack an overnight bag. Gave me a tour of his massive, beautiful house and, when he showed me the master bedroom, said, “Please note the California king-size bed comfortably accommodates two.”

He made me dinner. We had a bottle of wine. And we did sleep together.

It was lovely. He was lovely.

Finally, I asked the question that had been bugging me from the first day we’d met. “Nathan, why did you ask me out?”

“It was an impulse,” he said, and I gave him points for not delivering a schmaltzy answer. “You just seemed...together. And happy.”

I liked that a lot.

One night, after a long kiss good-night that made my stomach gather in a giddy, delicious squeeze, he whispered, “I love you, you know,” and my whole chest ached with heat.

“I love you, too,” I breathed without thinking.

My next thought was Too early. Too easy. Too soon.

Six weeks later, he proposed.

It was fast. But we weren’t kids. He’d been married already. And children, which seemed like an elusive dream akin to spending the summer horseback riding through Montana with Derek Jeter, were now a possibility. One way or another, biological or adoptive, we both wanted to be parents. He loved his two nephews like crazy. Always wanted to be a father. Madeleine, his ex-wife, had changed her mind on that; it was the issue that ended their marriage.

And, I thought, life was uncertain. Look at Eric, hit with cancer at thirty-two years old (though thankfully, he caught it early, and it was a cancer with a high cure rate). My sister could’ve lost him. Live life to the fullest. Seize the day. Et cetera.

His parents weren’t thrilled; well, his father seemed fine, kissing me on the cheek and forgetting my name almost immediately in a benign, scotchy way. His mother looked elegantly perplexed but was classy enough to say, “I’m sure we’ll become quite close.” His sister, Brooke, was warm, and her husband was quite nice, as well. Their little boys were beautiful; cousins for my future children. The thought caused a palpable tremor of joy.

My own family was mixed. Dad, who was enduring the off-season by rewatching every game he hadn’t personally called, tore his eyes off the TV and said, “Good for you, Poodle! About time! You’ve been with him what, ten years?”

“No, that’s Ainsley,” I said. “This is kind of a whirlwind thing.”

“Those are the best. Like me and Michelle,” he reminisced fondly, naming Ainsley’s mother. My own mother’s lips disappeared. “Well, good for you!” Dad continued. “Will I have to pay for the wedding?”

I patted his arm. “I think we’re gonna keep it small. Elope, maybe. I’m forty, after all. Almost.”

“You are? Good Lord! Well, elopement is a good idea. Very romantic. Bring him by sometime. Does he like baseball?”

I winced. “He’s a Mets fan.” We were pin-striped, of course. Dad was an American League umpire.

“Pity. Well, I’m sure he’s nice.”

“Why would you want to be married, Kate?” my mother asked over lunch with Ainsley and me. “Just live together. It’s less messy when you break up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “And aren’t you pro-marriage? I’m sure you mention it in one of your books.”

“You’ve been on my case to get married for years,” Ainsley said.

“Well, you’re wasting your life with Eric, honey. If he liked it, as the song goes, he would’ve put a ring on it.”

“Should you be quoting Beyoncé when you have a PhD from Yale?” my sister asked. “Also, Eric’s recovering from cancer, if you remember. Weddings are kind of low on our priorities list.”

“How’s he doing? Still clear?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t launch into too many medical details.

“Yeah,” she said, “but he’s waiting for the eighteen-month mark. That’s when he’s officially better.”

“Fingers crossed,” I said.

“Kate,” Mom said, turning to me, “you can hardly expect me to be wholehearted about this. You’ve known him what? Six months?”

“Five.”

“Five. Do you know the statistics for people who marry knowing each other less than two years?”

“Nope. But I’m almost forty. Old enough to make my own decisions, Mom.”

Ainsley chattered cheerfully about flowers and dresses, but she gave off an air of confusion. After all, as Mom pointed out via Beyoncé, Ainsley was the one with the decade-long relationship. She already lived with Eric in Cambry-on-Hudson. She clearly was supposed to be first down the aisle.

“Well, Eric thinks the world of Nathan,” she said gamely. “He’s a total catch!” The words made me wince. So 1950s, as if we women had to trick men into marriage.

But he did meet every criterion a single woman could have—kind, steady, interesting, intelligent, attractive, financially secure. Even his divorce spoke well of him; he hadn’t been hanging around, not committing (as I had been). He had no pit in his cellar, no devices for torturing women, no collection of Nazi uniforms. I looked, believe me, making him laugh and laugh as I poked around his enormous home.

There was absolutely no reason not to marry him.

Except...

There’s always that, isn’t there?

Marriage, as nice as it might be, would throw my life into upheaval—Nathan wanted me to move to Cambry-on-Hudson, relocate my studio, sell my apartment. Of course he did. COH was his hometown, and though I hadn’t grown up there, it was where I went on holidays. It made sense. He had a gorgeous house perfectly suited to children and entertaining, with plenty of space for us both.

But still. All the adjustments, all the moving, most of the changes would be mine. Ideally, I’d take more time to ease into this. I knew I wasn’t used to being part of a couple, of joint decision-making.

Not to mention that five months wasn’t enough time to truly know each other. This would be a leap of faith that everything I believed to be true about Nathan would hold fast. If I was wrong—or if he was—we’d look like idiots.

The changes would be worth it, I believed. But it would be upheaval nonetheless, and twenty years on my own...well, it was hard to walk away from. I couldn’t bring myself to sell my apartment. Instead, I rented it and put my things in storage. It was December. Who wanted to schlep furniture?

If I’d been even a few years younger, I would’ve waited. There was a small, annoying voice—my mother’s—telling me that a reason not to marry him didn’t mean a good reason to marry him. That you can’t really love someone you’ve known for five months.

I confessed my concern to Paige. We were at Porto’s, our favorite bar, one of the few places in Brooklyn that predated the influx of cool people and was therefore übercool, the not locally farmed, not organic, not microbrewed, not free-range food and drink deemed delightfully retro by the hipsters.

We were drinking vodka tonics at a table, idly watching Daniel the Hot Firefighter flirt with what seemed like identical blonde women who couldn’t be more than twenty-two. “Maybe I should wait,” I said. “Just see how things go.”

“I think you’re a fucking idiot,” Paige said, taking a slurp of her drink.

“No, no, tell me what you really mean,” I said. “Don’t mince words.”

“Seriously, Kate. He’s great. Marry him. Move to the ’burbs and have twins. I’m so jealous I could stab you in the throat.”

“Will you be a bridesmaid?” I asked, grinning.

“Piss off.”

She wasn’t smiling. My own smile died a quick death. “Paige,” I began.

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? You were the last single friend I had. I’d kill for a guy like Nathan, and you sit there wondering if you should marry him. Who do you think you are?”

“Um...a person? With feelings and thoughts? Come on, Paige. I thought I could talk to you—”

“Yeah, well, don’t. Okay? You have a two-carat ring on your finger. Wear white. Register for new china and, hey, how about a destination wedding to make your single friends use vacation time and spend their own money to cheer you on?”

With that, she threw down her napkin and left.

“Did you and Paige break up?” Daniel asked, appearing at my side. “Was it over me?”

I laughed reluctantly. “No. I’m getting married. Paige is...” My voice trailed off.

“A bitch?”

“No. Just feeling a little left out, maybe. I’m moving to Westchester.”

He shuddered. “Well, mazel tov, Kate. Nice knowing you.”

“I’m not dying.”

“You’re moving out of the city. Same thing. See you never.” He smiled and went back to his fan club.

I forgave Paige the bitchiness, but I knew she wouldn’t forgive me. I was getting what we both always wanted, and she was not. I understood. The little voice in my head, that tremor of warning, was snuffed out.

On New Year’s Day, Nathan and I went for dinner at a restaurant with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was snowing, and we had a window table. I wore a glittery white cocktail dress and slutty black shoes, and Nathan gave me a red rose. The justice of the peace came in, and in front of a room full of strangers, with New York shimmering through the windows, I became Nathan’s wife.

Ninety-six days later, I became his widow.

Chapter Six

Kate

Taking a pregnancy test moments before leaving for my husband’s wake...the sense of the ridiculous was not lost on me.

I locked the guest bathroom door and tried to take a deep breath. Since the moment Nathan went down four days ago, I’d been in a dream-state of panic and disbelief, the edge of hysterical laughter never far from my lips, as if at any minute, Nathan was going to jump out of the broom closet and say “Surprise!”

I hadn’t cried yet. Not exactly. There’d been some...well...noises. A sense of strangulation if I dozed off. No tears, not yet. I did, however, seem to be hyperventilating rather a lot.

Ainsley used to have panic attacks when she was little. Mom dutifully taught her to breathe slowly—in for a count of three, hold for a count of three, exhale for three, hold for three. In for three, hold for three, out for three, hold for three. I used to chant it during thunderstorms when she was tiny and would climb into my bed, shaking with fear.

I tried it now. It wasn’t working. All the air wanted to do was rush in-out-in-out-in-out.

Two lines, goddamn it, I mentally ordered. Two lines. You owe me.

I wrestled my Spanx panty hose back into place (because one must look smooth and sleek at the wake of one’s husband), pulled down my black dress and waited.

Come on, Universe. Throw me a bone here.

The seconds ticked past. No rush. Wasn’t like I was going anywhere fun. My chest bucked with an aborted sob. Someone had told me I was in shock. Kiara, that was it. She was a doctor, she knew these things. Also, there was no normal reaction to a sudden death. Nothing I felt was wrong.

Except everything I felt was wrong.

I so did not want to do this widow thing. For a flash of a second, it seemed possible that I could say, “Yeah...no. I’ll pass.” Then I’d revive Nathan and go back to being married.

Eloise and Nathan Senior were waiting downstairs with Brooke, Chase and the heartbroken boys. The thought of their sweet, bereft faces made my throat feel like a nail had been driven through it. A spike, actually, a big rusty railroad spike. Their uncle. Their only uncle.

Four days ago, I was married. That had been enough of a trip. Now I was a widow. I ask you—how weird was that? (My brain seemed to be generating only italicized words, like an overdramatic narrator.)

Brooke lost her beloved younger brother. The Coburns no longer had a son.

Nathan was dead.

I mean, really. What the fuck?

Maybe I could stay here all night. It sure beat what lay ahead. I could simply wait for everyone to leave, creep out of the bathroom and watch Orange Is the New Black. I could make popcorn. Better yet, I could buy some of that popcorn with the salted caramel and chocolate in it. Get a bottle from Nathan’s wine cellar, climb in bed with our big TV on. Nathan wouldn’t be able to resist that. He’d definitely come back from the dead for that.

Funny—horrible—how fast I’d gotten used to sleeping with another person. For twenty years, I’d had my own bed almost without interruption. Two weeks into our marriage, and Nathan and I had already figured out how to sleep together, how we fit together, when to cuddle close, when to pull away.

Now the bed was like the vast Arctic Ocean, freezing cold and lifeless.

The panic was back, little squeaks coming out of my throat, my lips clamped tight.

Please don’t make me do this, Nathan. Please.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and I jumped. “Kate? Are you okay?” It was Brooke.

“Coming,” I said too loudly. My watch told me I’d been in here for seven minutes.

In a movie, there’d be two lines. After all, we did shag before the party. I would have a baby in my grief, and the baby would be a memorial to Nathan and our tragic love, and such a comfort to the Coburns. He absolutely would be Nathan the Fourth. I’d be really noble and quite beautiful, probably played by that chick who cried so well... What was her name? Rachel McSomething. Yes. Nate IV and I would make a new life together, and he would have his father’s blue eyes.

I looked at the test.

One line.

Insult to injury. “Fuck you, test,” I whispered. “You’re wrong.”

* * *

The carpet at the funeral home was so plush and soft that I wobbled every time someone hugged me. And everyone hugged me. I definitely should not have worn heels. Why didn’t anyone tell me this? Also, the Spanx panty hose kept threatening to roll down. Every few hugs, I’d have to reach behind and hitch it up a little. I had to pee, which would give me the chance to pull the panty hose back where it belonged. Was I allowed to leave the line? Probably not.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I said to the tie in front of me. If I looked only at the necktie, it was easier not to lose my shit and start with the hehn-hehn-hehn sounds of hyperventilating. It was so fucking embarrassing. I sounded like a dying duck.

My language had seriously deteriorated since my husband died.

“Bernard, how good of you to come. Thank you for being so kind,” said Eloise next to me. She wore a black knit St. John dress and pearls. Her eyes were dry, her heart broken, and she made Jackie Kennedy look like a strung-out wreck. “This is our daughter-in-law, Kate. Kate, our very dear friend Bernard Helms.”

“Great to meet you,” I said, then covered my mouth with my hand. “Oh, shit, I didn’t mean that. Obviously, I wish we’d met under different circumstances. But you know, thanks for coming.” My left heel wobbled. I felt drunk with fatigue and grief. Now I looked drunk, too, wobbling around, constantly off balance. Eloise’s heels were higher than mine, but she was not the wobbling type. Brooke wore flats. Smart of her. “Did you know Nathan well?”

Bernard’s eyes filled. “I’ve known him since he was a baby. Such a good boy. I remember this terrible snowstorm, oh, maybe ten years ago. My wife had cancer, and we lost power, and I look out the window, and there’s Nathan, coming up our driveway. His place had an automatic generator, and damned if he didn’t take the both of us to his house and treat us like royalty the whole four days. Cooked us dinner, played Scrabble.” Bernard was now openly weeping. “I’m so sorry for you, my dear. Such a tremendous loss.”

I seemed to be gulping and sort of barking with a little choking thrown in for good measure. Pressing my hand against my mouth, I glanced at Eloise helplessly. Pain was carved so deeply on her face that it hurt to look, but she smiled sadly and patted Bernard’s arm, murmured something.

I felt like a junkie next to her.

My sister slipped up with a box of tissues. I didn’t need them, though. I was just barking, like a dog, or a fox, or a...a...stegosaurus. Did they bark? What was the question? Oh, tissues. The really good ones, with lotion. Ainsley was still waiting, so I took one, blew and wobbled. Ainsley steadied me, and I hated that she was being so nice. I didn’t want her to be nice. I wanted to be home with Nathan. “Hang in there,” she whispered, then went back to her seat.

“I’m so, so sorry,” said another one of Eloise’s friends, her eyes red and wet. “You just got married! How can you stand it?”

I have no fucking idea, lady. “I... It was a terrible shock.” Eloise had been saying that, so I borrowed her line.

“Awful! Did he...” She lowered her voice. “Did he make any noise?”

Jesus. “I... No. It was very fast.”

“This is why Indian women throw themselves on the pyre, isn’t it? You must want to do the same thing.” She looked at the casket. “He almost looks alive, doesn’t he?”

Yeah. We had an open casket. I wasn’t sure who said yes to that. It might have been me.

Most of the people here were strangers to me—friends I hadn’t met, friends of the elder Coburns, friends of Brooke. The boys’ classmates came, which was just brutal, seeing Miles and Atticus trying not to cry, and failing. The Little League team Nathan and Chase coached together came in as well, the little sweaty boy hands shaking mine, the kids unable to look me in the eye.

As wife, I came first in the reception line. Then Eloise, her finishing school posture ramrod straight, and Nathan Senior, who was medicated, I was pretty sure, the lucky dog. God. No, he wasn’t lucky. The rusty spike twisted.

Then came Brooke, who was being so brave and kind, though how, I could not imagine. Chase was solemn, nodding, speaking in a low voice, moving the line along, putting his arm around Brooke. At the end were Atticus and Miles in their little navy suits, which just ruined me.

My sister and Eric sat in the front row with Matthias and Esther, Esther crying quietly, Matt giving me a sad smile when our eyes met. And Mom, who wore a you should’ve listened to me look on her face. What was she? A fucking gypsy? Sean and Kiara were murmuring in the back, shaking hands, listening sympathetically. They’d left Sadie with a sitter, but they’d brought a drawing she made for me, smears of pink and green paint.

“Oh, Kate! I’m just so sorry!” Hugging me now was one of Nathan’s workmates, a fellow architect whose name I couldn’t summon. Her body shook with sobs. “I am so, so, so sorry.”

Three sos. He deserved them.

“He was so happy with you,” she whispered, pulling back to look at me.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” My throat was so tight, the words croaked out. “He was—” was? Shit, all this past tense! “—so fond of you.” Whoever you are.

The coworker’s mouth trembled, her eyes red. “Anything you need, just call me,” she whispered, moving on to Eloise.

“Susannah,” my mother-in-law said, never one to forget a name. Her Boston accent made the name sound like Susahnner. “You’re so kind to be here. I know Kate appreciates it very much, as do we.”

Nathan and I would never make fun of his mother again. Oh, he’d loved her, all right, but he could do a killer imitation of that upper-crust accent, her soft Rs and long vowels. “Is this hahf-and-hahf?” he’d say. “Hahven’t you any skim, my deah?”

I’d never hear him do that again. How was that possible?

“Hello. Thank you for coming,” I said to the next tie, my voice wobbling.

“Kate, these are the Parkersons,” Eloise said, her voice trembling slightly. “Our next-door neighbors when Nathan was a boy.”

“We can’t believe it,” Mrs. Parkerson said, tears pouring down her face. “We just can’t believe it. He was such a good person!”

“I’m Kate,” I said. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“We flew in from Arizona. Terrible storms in Chicago.”

“Well. We appreciate it.”

“He used to rake our leaves,” the husband said. “We’d pay him a dollar, remember, Eloise? Imagine that. Kids today can’t drop their iBoxes to do a damn thing, but Nathan did our whole yard for one dollar.”

So you were cheap and took advantage of a kid. Got it.

“At least you don’t have children,” the woman said. It felt like a punch in the throat. Before I could answer—and what do you say to that?—they moved on to Brooke and fell on her like vampires.

Poor Eloise. I had no idea how she could hold it together like this. On impulse, I reached out to squeeze her hand, but she turned away to say something to the neighbors before I could, and my hand was left floating, awkward and alone.

Impressions of people swarmed me like bats after dark. There was what’s-his-name, the guy whose office was next to Nathan’s, covering his face with his hand, crying. They’d worked together for a long time, I thought. Just inching through the doorway now was one of the shop owners from downtown—Jenny, who owned the wedding dress shop, and her boyfriend. Lenny? No. Something cooler. Leo. So nice of them to come. We were going to have dinner, Jenny and Leo, Nathan and I. Not now. No more foursomes. Not unless I found another husband, quick.

The thought made me sputter with a laugh, the edge of hysteria that much closer. I turned it into a cough. I wasn’t sure anyone was fooled.

I met Nathan’s Boy Scout troop leader; the woman at the post office; the mayor of Cambry-on-Hudson, who used to babysit him. His cross-country coach from middle school, his cross-country coach from high school, his teammates, his classmates, his college mates, his graduate school mates, his workmates. Everyone knew Nathan. Everyone had a story.

Another person from downtown Cambry-on-Hudson stood in line. Kim from Cottage Confections, who’d made us a tiny, beautiful wedding cake when she heard we’d eloped. She and Jenny the wedding dress designer and I had drinks when I moved into my new studio, all of us linked by the wedding industry. Kim had gone to school with Nathan. She’d told me a funny story about him at an eighth-grade social, when he danced right into a pole and got a bloody nose.

She saw me looking now and gave a little wave, tears in her eyes.

I wasn’t sure how I could keep breathing. The spike seemed to be cutting everything off. Maybe I’d faint. Fainting would be good. I wouldn’t have to be here if I was unconscious.

Ainsley had sent a mass email to my friends, letting them know about Nathan. But Cambry-on-Hudson was far to come for a wake, I guessed. Brooklynites were notoriously reluctant to travel past Manhattan. Out of the entire City of New York? Please. There’d been a lot of emails I hadn’t yet read, and many flower arrangements, some fruit baskets and donations to charities. Cards had been pouring in.

The only representative from my Brooklyn life was Max, my soft-voiced assistant, standing in the back with his wife, eyeing the crowd like a member of the Secret Service. He didn’t like most people, which was ironic, since we were always photographing them. So the fact that he was here...

Ainsley hopped back up like a well-trained service dog and gave me a few more tissues, assuming I was crying. Nope, still no tears. Panic, yes. My skin crawled like fire ants had attacked. Adrenaline, shock, whatever. I took the tissues and balled them in my hand.

Behind me was Nathan’s body, post-autopsy.

“You doing okay?” Ainsley asked.

“Nope. Really shitty,” I whispered. The carpet sucked at my heels again, and I staggered a little.

My father appeared before me. “Hey, sweetie. I’m so sorry.” Then his face crumpled a little.

Sometimes I forgot that Dad had lost a spouse, too.

He composed himself, his face changing back to that jovial how ’bout them Yankees expression he usually wore. Hugged me hard, the kind of hug that I hadn’t had from him in twenty years or so.

“Thanks, Dad,” I whispered. My father had liked Nathan, despite the Mets. Swore he’d win him over to the dark side by taking him to a Yankees game.

So that would never happen, either.

Dad let go of me rather abruptly and moved down the line to Eloise. He hated funerals and wakes. Most people did. I definitely did. I wondered if I could say, “I hate these things. Who wants to grab a burger instead?”

Had Nathan been scared? Did he know? Please, please, don’t let him have been scared, I begged the higher power that I’ve been clinging to these past four days. Heaven, which I never really believed in, had become awfully important this week.

Nathan deserved heaven.

Maybe if I could cry, this horrible spike in my throat would disintegrate. But the tears didn’t come.

Another man stood in front of me. No tie. Kind of refreshing, really. Just an unbuttoned gray polo shirt revealing an attractive male throat, a hint of chest hair. I waited for the I’m so sorry for your loss. It didn’t come. I raised my eyes.

The face was gorgeous. And familiar, but I couldn’t place it for a second. Green eyes. Dimples. Mischievous eyebrows.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said in a low voice, and he gave me a hug, and then I knew who he was, and I was suddenly so unexpectedly happy that it took me by surprise. Someone from my old life was here, someone I would never have expected to see. His neck was solid and warm.

“God, you smell good,” he murmured. “Sorry. Inappropriate?”

“Very,” I said, hugging him back. “What the hell are you doing here, Daniel the Hot Firefighter?”

The room went quiet.

Oh, shit. I mean, that was what we called him, but still.

“It’s the grief talking,” he said to Eloise, releasing me. “Hi, I’m Daniel Breton, a friend from Brooklyn. I’m so sorry.” He looked back at me. “So. Shitty luck, huh?”

“Yep.”

We just looked at each other a second. “How are you?” I asked, not wanting him to go.

“Better than you.” He cocked an eyebrow.

“True enough.” It was so strange to see him in my new life, in Westchester County. Aside from a few parties in the apartment he once shared with Calista, the only time I’d ever seen Daniel the Hot Firefighter was in bars or riding past in a fire truck.

We’d never been friends, exactly. Calista had been my friend before she got so spiritual and limber. Daniel was just her man-child ex, fun eye candy. At most, Paige and I had let him sit with us for a drink while he was waiting for a False Alarm to wander past.

But here he was. And it probably took him two hours to get here.

“Were you happy together?” Daniel asked.

The question brought the spike flying back. “Yes,” I whispered.

“Good. That’s good.”

The line was stopped, the endless mourners waiting. “Thanks for coming, Daniel.”

“You bet. See you around.” He moved on, shaking hands with the Coburns.

For a second, I pictured four of us—Daniel and one of his False Alarms, Nathan and me, back at Porto’s Bar, laughing. We should’ve done that. Why hadn’t we ever done that? They would’ve liked each other, maybe.

Unfortunately, Nathan still seemed to be dead.

So no beers with Daniel the Hot Firefighter.

I glanced at the casket, which I’d been trying so hard not to do.

Nathan wore a blue suit and a tie I’d given him for Christmas. Or had I? He had lots of ties. This one was purple with red polka dots. From now on, I’d be obliged to hate red polka dots.

This was just not funny. Seriously. I was not amused. For a second, I felt like kicking his casket and saying, Wake up, you selfish shit. Look at your poor mother! Look at Miles and Atticus! How is your sister supposed to go through life without you? And what about me, huh? What about our baby? Remember that little project? Huh? Huh? You can’t just run out on all this, you know!

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Another tie. This one was navy blue with silver. “Thanks.” I raised my eyes. It was Jonathan, Ainsley’s boss.

He’d been great that night. When I started, ah, screaming and stuff—Nathan’s slits of blue eyes, those unseeing blue eyes, and please, Higher Power, take that image away from me—Jonathan had been busy. Chest compressions until the paramedics arrived. He drove me to the hospital, I think. It gets blurry around that point. No. He did.

“He seemed like a very nice person,” Jonathan said, and the simple words caused another agonizing swallow.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and he inclined his head in a courtly nod and moved on to shake Eloise’s hand.

“Kate,” said a quiet voice next to me. Brooke. “Can I have a word?” She guided me a few steps closer to the...the...the casket and lowered her already quiet voice to nearly inaudible. “Kate, Madeleine is here and wants to pay her respects. Is that all right with you?”

“Madeleine? Nathan’s ex?”

“Yes. She...she was devastated when Mom called her.” Brooke’s eyes filled with tears.

“Oh. Um...well, sure. I mean, is it okay with you guys? The family?”

“It’s up to you.”

Well, I couldn’t exactly bar the door, could I? “Sure. Of course.”

Brooke nodded, then walked from the room, and I went back to the hated line.

Nathan never told me much about Madeleine; it was one of the few subjects he was touchy about. It hadn’t been easy, I knew. They’d been married for six years. She’d had a difficult upbringing and was, in his words, brilliant. She worked in...in something cool. I couldn’t remember. Otherwise, I knew nothing.

“Thank you for coming,” I said to the next tie.

“I’m very sorry,” said the man, and I was so tired, I didn’t bother asking how he knew Nathan.

“Thank you,” I said.

“At least you didn’t have children,” his wife said, patting my arm, and I felt like stabbing her.

And then in came Madeleine with Brooke.

My husband’s ex-wife was stunning. He hadn’t mentioned that part. So you were married to Jessica Chastain, huh? I thought. Why isn’t she your widow? Doesn’t seem fair that she had you for six years, but I’m the sap who has to stand here. Also, my feet are killing me.

Madeleine was slim in that “Diet? What do you mean by this foreign word?” way. She was a vegan, Nathan had told me; he’d been watching me lay waste to a bacon cheeseburger and seemed quite content with my meat-eating habits. Vegans were difficult, he’d said.

But they did tend to have great figures. Her dress was navy blue, simple but fascinating, too. Chic, smooth haircut, expensive-looking gold earrings that twisted and swung.

She saw the casket and froze, her face turning white as chalk.

Then she let loose a wail that made my blood run cold.

The place fell silent.

She collapsed right there, folding (gracefully) to her knees, and put both fists up to her face. “No!” she sobbed. “Oh, Nathan, no!”

I hadn’t wailed, or collapsed. Was this a point in my column, or a demerit?

A demerit, it seemed. Eloise rushed to her side, helped her up and put her arms around her. “My deah Madeleine,” she said. “Oh, my deah.” They hugged, and finally, it seemed, Eloise cracked. Her face spasmed.

Just for a moment, though. She led Madeleine to the casket, where Madeleine put her hand on my husband’s chest—my dead husband’s chest—and shook with sobs.

Six years, the lucky bitch. Eloise murmured to her, and Brooke came in for a group hug.

Them, the popular girls in high school. Me, my panty hose rolling down.

“Where’s the bathroom?” my grandmother asked loudly. “I shouldn’t have had all that Pepsi at lunch.”

“Come with me, Gram-Gram,” Ainsley said.

“Kate.” The ex-wife was in front of me, trembling, pressing her lips together. Should I try to out-grieve her? Should I also wail and collapse?

Then I looked in her eyes, and all my bitchery evaporated.

She had really loved him.

“Hi. I’m...I’m so sorry,” I said, and my mouth wobbled, because I was so sorry, so sorry I hadn’t taken better care of Nathan. She’d kept him alive for six years. I lost him in our first.

“Forgive me for...that,” she whispered, tears spilling out of her beautiful eyes.

“No, no. It was an honest moment.” Sheesh. Listen to me.

“I’m sure he loved you very much.”

“Right back at you.”

Eloise gave me an odd look.

How did he ever get over her? She was flippin’ beautiful. I would marry her, she was so stunning. And why didn’t she want his babies? It would make things a lot better for the Coburns if there was a little Nathan running around this place, let me tell you. Madeleine was probably a selfish whore.

Eloise put her arm around her and ushered her away. I wondered if I said that selfish whore bit aloud.

“Thank you for coming,” I said belatedly, my voice sounding cheerful, as if I were waving fondly as best friends left after dinner.

Cause of death: blunt trauma to the head.

If my sister had gone for wood counters, or soapstone, would Nathan still be alive?

Apparently, he had a tiny little oddity in one of the blood vessels in his brain. Not a problem, unless one’s wife needed a second glass of wine.

Cause of death: wife wanted to have buzz on during irritating speech by sister’s boyfriend.

Couldn’t Eric just have asked Ainsley to marry him in private, like a normal person, I don’t know, like maybe five years ago? Instead, he had to make a big production in front of everyone, in front of his Wellness Montage (it had been labeled, and really, who the hell photographs the removal of a testicle?). No, we all had to drink a toast to my little sister, and boom, I’m a fucking widow.

I looked at the line, which went out the door, out into the foyer and down the street. When we pulled up to the funeral home, the line of mourners was four people thick and wrapped around the block. So much black it looked like the Night’s Watch from Game of Thrones had descended. That was two hours ago, and the line showed no sign of thinning.

Everyone loved him.

Nine months ago, I hadn’t. Nine months ago, I hadn’t known him. I’d finally gotten to that happy Zen place, and life had been really, really good.

If he had tripped nine months ago, I wouldn’t have even known about it. Seven months ago, I would’ve lost a very sweet guy I’d been seeing. I would’ve been melancholy for a while. Would’ve made a black joke about how the universe was telling me not to date. Five months ago, I would’ve mourned him, would’ve wondered if we had truly been in love or if it was just infatuation. I would’ve gone to his wake and introduced myself to his mother as a friend, smiled sadly when I thought of him.

Four months ago, I would’ve lost my fiancé, but I still wouldn’t have known the reality of living with him day after day.

Ninety-six days of marriage.

I drifted over to the casket and, for the first time this endless evening, took a long look at my husband’s body.

That woman had been wrong. He looked absolutely dead. His face was hard and stiff, like one of those plastic surgery addicts, pumped up on filler. I wondered if the funeral home used the same stuff. Juvaderm. Botox.

Oh, Nathan.

At least his hair felt the same. My fingers stroked it, gently, trying not to make contact with his scalp. Just his hair, soft, silky hair that curled a little when he was sweaty. Roman emperor hair, I said once. We were in bed at the time. His smile...

“Hey.”

It was Eric. Cause of death: extremely long-winded speech.

“Hey,” I bit out.

“You doing okay?”

“Not really.”

He put his arm around me, and I felt a pang of regret. Eric had always been a decent guy, if self-absorbed. “I was telling Sean about how weird this was, given my cancer. Like there’s some meaning here.”

The irritation came swooping back like a vengeful eagle. “There’s not, so please. None of your platitudes, Eric.”

He blinked. “I...I just meant life is short. You have to live life large.”

“Not now, Eric.”

“It’s almost a message from the universe. You know I loved him, too. And I thought I’d be the one who died. You know? From my cancer?”

“I vaguely remember, yes.”

“It’s just so random. When I was getting chemo, there were days when I thought this was the end, and I said to myself—”

“Here, Kate.” My sister pressed a glass of water into my hand. “Mrs. Coburn wants you to meet someone. Nathan’s friend from Columbia.”

Saved by the mourners. My sister steered Eric away, and I took another long look at my husband.

I love you, I thought desperately, and at almost the exact same time, another thought came, hard and defiantly ugly.

I wish we’d never met.

Chapter Seven

Ainsley

“Just when I’d accepted the divorce,” Candy liked to tell people on book tour, “Phil showed up with his child.”

I remembered thinking at age three and a half that it would be fun to live with a lady named Candy, that her house would be sparkly and we’d eat mostly pink foods. There’d be a lot of singing, I imagined.

There wasn’t. Candy sighed a lot. She had a daily headache.

Hence, my childhood of guilt. Candy would buckle me briskly into a car seat, then wince as she stood up, hands on her back. She was in her forties when I came to live with her, and she’d tell her friends that she’d forgotten just how hard little kids were. She was dutiful, showing up at parent-teacher conferences because Dad was off with the boys of summer. She made sure I ate nutritious—and tasteless—dinners, but it was pretty clear. I was not her daughter. She already had one of those.

When I came along, Candy had been working on her PhD. It took her four more years to finish her dissertation, which became her most famous book—Stuck with You: Raising the Recalcitrant Stepchild. It took me decades to figure out it was about me.

Unlike Sean and Kate, I was a day-care kid. From their stories, it seemed they were raised in a magical kingdom of sibling friendship and parental delight. Candy baked back then, coconut cookies and angel food cake. Kate and Sean had stories of the time their mother made a tepee in the living room over winter break, or read The Wind in the Willows out loud, doing all the voices to perfection. Sean and Kate even shared a room until he turned seven.

There were dozens of pictures of them before I came along, laughing together, arms slung around each other, Sean steadying Kate on her bike, the two of them eating Popsicles on a summer day, or standing in front of the house on the first day of school, Kate’s hair in neat ponytails, Sean’s freshly cut.

Day care was fine. To the best of my knowledge, I was never dropped on my head or burned with cigarettes or put in toddler fight club. When I started kindergarten at the age of four and a half, I went to after-school programs, envious of the kids who got to ride the bus home.

As I got older, Candy signed me up for pretty much anything that kept me out of the house. I was a Daisy/Brownie/Girl Scout, played soccer from the age of five, was forced into volunteering at Adopt-a-Grandparent, spending many a high school afternoon talking to elderly people who kept asking me to take them home.

My father liked me quite a bit, though he wasn’t around too much, always flying off somewhere to do his umpire thing. But when he was home, life was a lot happier. “I’m taking the Ainsburger on some errands,” he’d call to Family 1.0, and once or twice a month he would take me off, my little hand so happy in his. We’d visit one of his friends, and I’d get to have ice cream and watch TV, maybe play computer games, something Candy forbid. Dad and his friend would go into the bedroom to “have a little talk in private,” and hey, I didn’t care. Dad often took me to the toy store for a new stuffed animal after the visit. For years, I thought errands meant visiting ladies.

Kate and Sean were fine. They didn’t hate me, beat me, tease me. They just kind of...ignored me. Not in a mean way, but in a slightly confused way. I remember knocking on Sean’s door, asking him if he’d play with me. He looked utterly baffled as he groped around in his desk for something I could do with him. (He showed me how to shoot an elastic band, then told me he had to study.) Kate wasn’t the type to brush my hair or play dolls with me, though she would, if I asked.

I just got a little tired of asking.

So instead, I made up friends. Lolly and Mr. Brewster, the tiny humans who lived in the mountains of my blankets, would ski and slide down the hills made by my knees and have terrible crashes and vivid arguments about whose fault it was. There was Igor, a tiny elephant who lived in shoe boxes I decorated with scraps of fabric and paint.

I sound tragic, don’t I? I wasn’t, I’m pretty sure. By the time I was eight or nine, I had friends, and it was such a relief, having people who really seemed to like talking to me. In middle school, I joined everything, did the grunt-work jobs (always secretary, never president, equipment manager rather than star player). High school was the same; I was always Switzerland, staying friends with everyone, never taking sides.

I didn’t have a boyfriend. But I was great at giving advice to my friends who did have boyfriends, and I got a vicarious thrill every once in a while, approaching Seth to tell him that Lucy really liked him, and did he like her?

When Kate went off to NYU, my parents and I moved to Cambry-on-Hudson, and I made the most out of being the new girl. I’d learned long ago that being a superfriend was the way to make people like me back. Adore, and ye shall be adored.

Sean went from Harvard to Columbia Medical School, because he was a show-off. After NYU, Kate got an MFA in photography from Savannah College of Art and Design and immediately started working as a professional photographer. She was dazzling to me, so sophisticated and urbane, living in Brooklyn (I barely knew where that was back then, but it sounded so cool).

I went to a pretty nice college in New York City—well, it was Wagner College on Staten Island, in the shadow of the mighty skyline but technically still in New York City.

Unlike my siblings, I wasn’t driven to achieve or study anything in particular. College was wonderful, and I loved being away from home. My siblings were off leading their fabulous, very adult lives; Sean married Kiara, also a surgeon, specialized in some kind of brain surgery and did the occasional TED Talk. Kate lived in her brownstone, a world away, it seemed, though she had me over for dinner once in a while, always nice but a little unsure where I was concerned.

Then, junior year, I met Eric.

Wagner was a small school, but somehow, we didn’t know each other. He was an accounting major; I was studying philosophy, because doesn’t the world need more philosophers?

I saw Eric as we were moving back in on the first day of the new school year. His parents were saying goodbye, hugging him, and his mom was laughing and wiping tears. He kissed her on the cheek, hugged his dad, not the awkward thanks, gotta run hug of most boys our age, but a real hug, a loving hug.

And Eric was handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, attractively dorky glasses, lanky build.

He looked up, saw me watching and smiled, and that was it. I fell in love.

It took two weeks for me to speak to him, which was getting awkward, since we lived in the same dorm that year. But one happy night, my key card wasn’t working, and I was patiently reinserting it for the fifteenth time when Eric came up behind me and said, “Want me to try, girl who doesn’t talk to me?”

I blushed.

He smiled. “Maybe we could grab a coffee,” he suggested, and my heart ricocheted around my chest.

We grabbed a coffee.

By the weekend, we were a couple. It took him all of two weeks to get me into bed; basically, the amount of time it took for the Pill to kick in. I couldn’t believe love had finally found me in the form of affable, well-liked, dorktastic Eric Fisher...my boyfriend!

And even more remarkable...he felt the same way about me.

We could talk all night. It was more important to talk than sleep. He was funny, and he was so nice that it took my breath away. I hadn’t met any boys like that. Boys who held the door and bought you cold medicine when you were sick and snagged a blueberry muffin from the dining hall just because you loved them.

With Eric, I finally belonged. Finally, I was special.

That summer, we both got internships in Manhattan, me with a tiny publishing house, him with a bank. His parents let us stay in their apartment on 102nd Street—the building was named The Broadmoor, which I thought was so sophisticated. I’d never lived in a building with a name before. The apartment had belonged to Eric’s maternal grandmother, and it was a tiny, unglamorous place with a bedroom so small it could fit only a double bed. The living room was also the kitchen, and our table could fit only two people, and even then, our knees had to touch.

Mr. and Mrs. Fisher approved of me, which in itself was dazzling. “Are you religious, sweetheart?” his mom had asked on our third dinner together.

“Not really, Mrs. Fisher. Don’t let the name O’Leary fool you,” I said. “I can’t remember the last time we went to church. Maybe when my cousin got married a few years ago?”

She beamed. “Call me Judy, honey.”

“Sorry about my mom,” Eric said, smiling at his mother. “She wants to make sure the kids will be raised Jewish.”

Kids! Raised! My knees thrilled with adrenaline and love.

After graduation, we stayed together. It was always we. “We should go to San Francisco,” Eric said late in our senior year, “though it would kill my mother. By the way, she wants to take you to Phantom again. I’m sorry.”

I adored him. He was smart, kind and thoughtful. He told great stories, making his happy, normal childhood seem utterly hilarious without ever mocking his parents. His devotion to me didn’t even flicker. That was another thing I loved about him. His constancy.

The difference between being someone’s friend, sister (or half sister, as the case was), daughter (or stepdaughter)...and being someone’s love was breathtaking. I felt like the most wonderful creature in the world.

Upon graduation, Eric and I got jobs in the city, making Judy just about cartwheel with joy (they lived in nearby Greenwich, Connecticut). My B+ average and philosophy major qualified me to be nothing, but I got a job as a receptionist at NBC. Eric got a position at the bank where he’d interned, and we moved back into The Broadmoor, much to the jealousy of our friends, who had to endure complicated commutes from Queens or Yonkers.

It was perfect. The thrill of our first real jobs, riding on the subway, getting pad Thai for dinner and watching TV, fooling around in our tiny bedroom...it was everything I imagined adult life should be.

I loved working at Rockefeller Center, liked seeing the celebrities going in and out. I liked dressing up for work in my retro-cute dresses or sweater sets and A-line skirts. I was outgoing, I was cheerful, I said hello but didn’t ask for a selfie with the talent or try to kiss up to the producers and writers (though I did text Eric every time I saw Tina Fey). The job wasn’t rocket science, but I did it well.

Eric had a higher-paying job, and I encouraged him to look into MBA programs, because he had a really good brain for numbers. After just two months at the bank, he was already restless and irritable about his entry-level position. He wanted something with status, with an office and a personal assistant.

Personally, I felt there was a lot of peace in doing a not-hard job. Besides, my real adult life lay ahead of me, in some happy, vague fantasy that involved me wearing a lot of Armani, but still being a stay-at-home mom to our kids. Surely Eric and I would be getting married soon; we talked about it without reservation, not the specifics, but just when we’re married or that would be a nice place to settle down or when we have a baby. There was no rush. We were just out of college, after all.

NBC was fine. I never minded delivering lunch to the newsroom or standing in the rain to grab a taxi for someone who’d forgotten to book the car service. Then one day, a reporter from The Day’s News asked me to run out and buy him a new shirt and tie; he had to go on air unexpectedly and had sweated through his original shirt running back from lunch. “I hate to ask you,” he said. “But I’m in a jam, and my assistant isn’t in today.”

“Oh, I don’t mind!” I said. “No problem at all.”

He gave me four hundred dollars. “Buy yourself something for your trouble,” he said, “and thank you. Really, Ainsley. I appreciate it.”

How nice that he knew my name! Well, I wore a name badge, but most people just called me “Hey,” as in “Hey, I need a cab/lunch/reservation...”

I went to Brooks Brothers, got him a blue shirt that would bring out his nice eyes and a cool blue-and-purple tie with a pattern that wouldn’t strobe on TV. I brought the stuff up to the office and left the receipt and change in an envelope on his desk.

Two days later, there was a beautifully wrapped box on my desk. I told you to buy yourself something nice, the note said. Thank you again. —Ryan Roberts. Inside was a stunning pink-and-red silk scarf, so fine it practically floated. As Candy had drilled into me, I handwrote him a thank-you note.

Three weeks later, Ryan asked if I wanted to work on The Day’s News as a production assistant. There was an opening, and he’d thought of me. Eric just about fainted when I told him. “That’s great! Honey, I’m so proud of you!”

So even though I had only a vague idea of what a production assistant did, I said yes.

And here’s a secret. If you didn’t mind doing anything anyone asked, you were an amazing production assistant. Make coffee, get lunch, proofread this copy, get the art department to change this graphic, cut this story down to three minutes, call this restaurant and make a reservation for this anchor...it was easy. Other production assistants ran around sweating and panicked, trying to outsweat and outpanic each other to show how very important they were. I didn’t. I knew I wasn’t.

That was the thing that really stood out at NBC—my complete lack of ambition. I didn’t want to be a journalist or an on-air reporter. I didn’t want to go to Beirut (are you even kidding me?). Let other people go to dangerous places filled with bombs and rubble and gunfire. Me, I liked running water and flirting with the seventy-five-year-old doorman at The Broadmoor. I liked sleeping with Eric, because even though we both worked long days, we still fell asleep cuddled together every night.

I didn’t want a corner office. I never asked for a raise or a promotion.

This somehow got me a raise and a promotion every six months. For some reason, Ryan thought I was invaluable.

I know what you’re thinking. That he put the moves on me. Nope. He took Eric and me out to dinner with his wife. He showed me pictures of his kids, whom he truly adored. He thanked me for remembering his mom’s birthday when he forgot.

I went from production assistant to assistant producer, making my colleagues grind their teeth. Six months later, Ryan was tapped for more airtime, and I got another promotion so I could go along with him (associate producer). A year and a half after that, he was made lead anchor of The Day’s News, and at the age of twenty-six, I was made senior producer of the country’s second-largest news show.

Eric was so proud. He took both the O’Leary and Fisher families out to celebrate at a superfancy restaurant, and everyone came, even Dad, who happened to be in town for a Yankees-Orioles series. Judy and Aaron continually toasted and praised me, and Kate asked for celebrity gossip. Even Sean was impressed. Candy wondered how I was qualified, and Eric said, “Because she’s wonderful at everything she does.”

Ryan’s popularity soared; he was young enough to still have boy-next-door good looks, old enough for a sense of gravitas. He had a great sense of humor (hosted Saturday Night Live, in fact; I got Judy and Aaron tickets) and was adored by everyone at NBC. He treated me like an equal, listened to my suggestions and took them.

When he interviewed the President, I told Ryan to ask about the day his kids were born, and sure enough, the leader of the free world teared up, and ratings and social media went wild. Ryan knuckle-bumped me after the interview and introduced me to the President. Of the United States.

Meanwhile, Eric graduated from Rutgers with his MBA, got a job on Wall Street, and we were living the Big Apple dream. We traded in The Broadmoor for a two-bedroom in Chelsea (no name for the building, alas).

Despite my shiny title and brushes with the rich and famous, I made only a fraction of what Eric did at his job. Unlike me, he was very ambitious. But he was also fretful about work. On Wall Street, in a job with three hundred other bright, ambitious people, it was hard to stand out.

So I jumped in, his secret weapon. I had him invite his boss over for dinner, where I cooked and charmed with work stories and befriended the boss’s wife. I urged Eric to join the company softball team and volunteer for the American Lung Association stair climb in his building. When the CEO had twins, I had Eric make a donation to Save the Children in honor of the newborn boys. (She came down from the top floor to personally thank Eric, by the way.)

Ryan liked to say I had my finger on the pulse of humanity—yeah, yeah, a little over the top—but I did read people well. Eric...not as much. He was a little too used to being the worshipped only child to see what other people needed. I was the opposite. Unworshipped and clear-eyed.

Every so often when we passed a jewelry store window, Eric would look at me and grin. I’d feign innocence, and he’d say, “Just trying to see what you’re looking at.” So there were assurances and hints and references to us getting engaged...but still no ring.

One night, when we were having a rare dinner together in our beautiful apartment, and were both happy and full of good wine, I heard myself ask, “Hon? When do you think we’ll get married?”

He put down his fork; he’d cooked shrimp risotto, my favorite. Nodded, and gazed at me with his kind eyes. “I want that, too. You know I do. I love you so much, Ains. But the last thing I want to do is start our married life at a time when I’m so busy that I can’t spend time with my wife. Another year and a half, maybe two, and I’ll be over the hump. Can you hang in there that long?”

And not wanting to sound like a dependent, weak female, I said, “Of course! I’m busy, too, definitely. No, it was just a... I just wondered.”

“Obviously, we’re gonna get married, babe. You’re the love of my life.” He smiled, poured me more wine, and we had a lovely night. With great sex, I might add.

And then...well...then the shit hit the Peacock, as it were.

In addition to being the country’s most trusted source for news, Ryan Roberts also seemed to be a bit of a magnet for the action.

There was the time a bullet whizzed past his head during a hostage situation, and Ryan had the cameraman shoot him giving the update live, pointing to the hole in the building behind him. How about the time his car was lifted right off the ground in Tornado Alley? The fire in Queens, the terrorist threat in California. Exciting, terrifying stuff, right? I’d write the lead-in: This evening on The Day’s News—Ryan Roberts on the DC hostage situation, too close for comfort. Tune in at five!

At first, I didn’t know anything was amiss. I thought he just wasn’t that good at remembering the details when he called in. I was just down the street from the gunfire, he told me on the phone, but in our news meeting, it was a lot more dramatic—bullets streaking past my head. The big explosion that rattled the windows in the building down the street became a hair-singeing brush with a fireball.

Details can come back to people. It happens all the time. Besides, I trusted Ryan. He was the best boss in the world.

But it became a pattern. His SUV was fired on in Afghanistan. In Botswana, he held a dying AIDS patient in his arms. The news story—and ratings—were so much better, so much juicier when Ryan was part of the news, not just reporting it. And he was on the scene, after all. It was his job.

It didn’t happen all the time. Maybe every few months, but enough that my antenna started to twitch. I finally asked him about it over a late dinner in his office one night. It was hours after a hurricane had socked Brooklyn, and Ryan had been on the scene. “There I was, just trying to get a feel for the area,” he said, “and this woman called out from the subway. She was drowning, Ains! I ran down the stairs, into the water, which was completely filthy, by the way, and dragged her out. She was barely conscious.”

The antenna quivered. Why would he wait all day to tell me this? “Where’d you take her?” I asked.

“Huh? Oh, someone helped her to the hospital. She was fine.”

The antenna twitched.

“Did you get her name? It would make a fantastic piece.”

“I should’ve asked, right? Guess I was just too caught up in the moment.” Except he was a newsman. Getting the story was his life.

The antenna began voguing, Madonna-style.

I took a bite of my sesame noodles. “It’s funny. Sometimes it seems like you only remember the best details after you’ve had a couple hours.” I didn’t look at him as I spoke, and I kept my tone careful.

This was my boss. He made sixteen million dollars a year. He’d given me an incredible career, and I wasn’t exactly awash in life skills.

Ryan didn’t answer. Just looked at me and took another bite of his Reuben.

“I just want to be sure the story is...clean,” I said.

“Of course it is, Ainsley,” he said with that crooked grin America loved. “Sometimes it takes a little while for everything to filter through. The adrenaline, you know? Well.” There was a significant pause. “Maybe you don’t. Since you don’t go on scene.”

In other words, don’t push it.

Every news show probably did the same thing, right? I mean, it didn’t simply rain anymore—we had rain events. Fog warnings. Anchors were sent to stand in front of empty buildings in the middle of the night to create a sense of drama. “Earlier today, a shocking story...”

Really, what did I know? I wasn’t there. My antenna knew nothing.

Then came the point of no return.

It shouldn’t have been such a big deal. Really, of all of Ryan’s exaggerations to cause a frenzy, this one was the most harmless. But the frenzy happened just the same.

Ryan was doing a story on the cuts Congress had just made to veteran benefits. He was interviewing a vet who’d lost both her legs and part of her face to an IED. They all sat in the humble living room, the husband’s voice gruff as he spoke about his wife’s courage and determination, the American flag in its triangle box on a shelf behind them.

Ryan looked so gentle and concerned that I myself teared up. He asked about what the benefit cuts would mean to the family, how much her physical therapy (no longer covered) had helped, and what her prosthetics and additional plastic surgery would cost.

Then the kicker. The couple’s three-year-old wandered into the shot and climbed right on Ryan’s lap. “Hello, there, sweetheart,” he said, and he carried on the interview just like that. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.

You could feel America sigh with love.

I mean, talk about good TV! The noble warrior, her hardworking husband, their adorable toddler and America’s most trusted face. You couldn’t script that stuff.

Except apparently, you could.

Two weeks later, the New York Post ran the headline: Ryan Roberts Bribes Military Family for America’s Tears. An email had been leaked—the veteran’s husband wrote to thank Ryan for doing the story and apologized that it took so long for Callie to warm up to you. Hope your ears don’t still hurt from her crying!

Crying? There’d been no crying!

The email went on. The extra money sure will help. We really appreciate it.

Ryan could not be reached for comment.

Turned out, he’d offered the couple a thousand dollars to have their kid come sit on his lap, coached into the shot by the grandmother. It had taken quite a few tries before little Callie trusted Ryan.

Bill, the retirement-age cameraman, had leaked it. Though he’d been in on Ryan’s exaggerations all along (for a few extra thousand each time), this story was the straw that broke his back. He was a veteran himself. The couple admitted they simply needed the money for better prosthetics, due to the Congressional funding cuts.

Long story short, Congress got off their asses as if they were on fire.

A GoFundMe page was set up for the family, and more than $1.4 million was raised in the first day.

Ryan’s other stories came to light. The tornado. The bullets. The drowning woman in the subway. He was fired, and after a six-month period of head-hanging and sheepish apologies, he was rehired at another network for a paltry half of his sixteen-million-dollar salary.

I was fired, too. I was not rehired. It was my job to make sure the news was clean, to know if Ryan was stretching the truth, to keep an eye on these things, goddamn it! as the head of NBC screeched.

So I joined the ranks of the unemployed, as appealing to other networks as an Ebola-riddled leper holding an open jar of typhus.

After my one hundred and fiftieth job rejection in four weeks (Starbucks wouldn’t have me), I lay on the couch, ten pounds heavier than I’d been a month ago. It was okay, I told myself between bouts of sobbing and Ben & Jerry’s. I never wanted to be a producer in the first place. At least I had Eric. And Ben. And Jerry.

Eric sighed as he came in; I was in the “pajama” phase of grief. “Babe, come on. You were gonna leave anyway once we had kids.”

“It’s just... I didn’t do anything wrong. Technically.”

“I know. We’ve been over this.”

Oh, God. If Eric didn’t want to talk about it—Eric my rock, my love, my best friend—I was really, really pathetic.

Then he threw me the best bone ever. “Listen, with my salary, you don’t need to work. Take your time, find something you really love, something that will work in the next phase of our lives. Besides...” He paused and stroked my unclean hair. “Don’t you think it’s time we bought a house?”

Hell’s to the yes! It was exactly what I needed. I’d figure out what the next phase was (marriage and children, thank you very much). First step, a home for all of us.

We found a house in Cambry-on-Hudson, where I’d spent my teenage years, where Candy and Dad still lived, forty-five minutes from Judy and Aaron in Greenwich. An easy commute for Eric via the train, close enough to the city that we could still pop in for a show or to see friends, far enough away that it felt like the country. The posh little town was filled with interesting shops, some great restaurants, a couple of little galleries and a bakery that could be compared only with paradise. A marina jutted out into the Hudson, and high on a hill sat a huge white country club that we nicknamed Downton Abbey (which would be perfect for our wedding).

“Wait till we have kids,” Eric warned me when we found the house. “Don’t be surprised if my parents buy the house next door.” That would be great with me.

Our house was a little soulless from the outside, but fabulous on the inside. Huge bedrooms, a sunken living room, a kitchen with granite countertops and a nice front porch. It was in a development, which I hadn’t wanted, but the yard was landscaped and pretty.

We went to the animal shelter and picked out Ollie, then a skinny little bag of bones who’d been found tied to a phone pole. Still, when we reached out to pet him, he wagged so hard he fell down.

“Our family has begun,” Eric said, kissing the dog on the head.

When it came time to sign the papers, I had a little shock.

“Um...my name isn’t on here,” I told the real estate agent.

“Oh, no! Did I make a mistake?” he asked. “I can draw up new papers. I just... I’m sorry, it must’ve been a misunderstanding.”

“No, let’s do this,” Eric said. “We can fix it later, babe.” He signed with a flourish, grinning at me, and when the Realtor left, we made love in the empty living room. His parents came over that night, and even though we drank champagne and laughed, I kept thinking about that. Eric Fisher. Not Eric Fisher and Ainsley O’Leary.

“I wonder if we’ll ever have grandchildren, Aaron,” Judy said, subtle as a charging lion. She held Ollie, stroking him as he crooned with joy. “Grand-dogs are lovely, too, but...”

“Mom,” Eric said. “Why do you think there are four bedrooms?”

He kissed me, and Judy sighed, and Aaron chuckled, and I put my worries aside and waited for a marriage proposal. Kept waiting. Waited some more. Started volunteering at the local senior housing complex where Gram-Gram lived, bringing Ollie in for pet therapy. Planted tulip bulbs. Painted rooms, refurbished a table, bought furniture.

Two months after we moved, Eric got another promotion. He apologized, saying he really, really wanted to tie the knot and spend more time at home but this job would put us over the top. I tried not to feel glum. His career was on fire; I was an anomaly in Cambry-on-Hudson—a stay-at-home person. Like a shut-in, Kate mused, or a kept woman. She smiled when she said it, but I knew she meant it.

I missed my old job more than I ever would’ve guessed.

That was when Candy got me an interview for features editor at Hudson Lifestyle. “Don’t mess this up,” she said over the phone as I stood in front of the fridge, eating Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Eric in Dallas yet again.

“Thanks for your faith in me, Candy,” I said. “I’ll try not to blow it.”

“It’s just that I have a professional reputation there. I recommended you for this job. If you don’t make a good impression, it will reflect badly on me, and let me tell you, I worked very hard to get where I am. It wasn’t easy, especially having a toddler thrust on me when I was forty years old.”

Lest we forget. “Got it, Candy. And really, thank you.” I hung up and polished off the entire pint of ice cream like any good American.

The offices of Hudson Lifestyle were in a brick building in the old part of downtown. There were six people on the staff, most in cubicles, most dealing with advertising and bookkeeping.

A secret about print journalism—the writers are often the least valued people on the job. Advertisers keep any paper afloat, and the graphics people have to set the thing up, and someone makes those irritating calls to see if you want to subscribe, and someone has to empty the trash and clean the bathrooms, but writers? Pah. A dime a dozen. There’s always some college intern who can do what you do. Besides, everyone reads only the Huffington Post and BuzzFeed.

I waited in the reception area, which was small but nicely furnished. The glossy magazine was spread out on the coffee table—a picture of a farmhouse on one cover; a head of lettuce on another; a sailboat on another. Headlines such as Best Plastic Surgeons in Westchester! and Farm to Table Dining and Area’s Top Garden Centers! told me all I needed to know about the magazine, which I’d never read before. The receptionist told me to have a seat, then disappeared (probably to clean the bathrooms and empty the trash).

I missed my old job. I missed Rockefeller Center. I missed Ryan. I missed being important.

Tears filled my eyes, and my nose prickled. Did I have a tissue? No, I did not. It’s just that this job...after my other job...it was such a step down. It was humiliating. I’d produced news stories on rebels in Afghanistan. I’d met the leader of the free world. Now I’d have to write about lettuce. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, leaving a smear of eyeliner and mascara. Great.

A man came out to greet me, already seeming pissed off, as if he could read my mind. “Ashley?” he said.

“Ainsley. Ainsley O’Leary. A pleasure.” I stood up and stuck out my hand, which he looked at and didn’t shake.

“Are you crying?”

“Oh... I just... I’m a little, uh, premenstrual.” Shit.

He gave me a long, unblinking look. Strange, pale blue eyes, like an alien. “Will that be a problem during this interview?” he asked.

“Let’s hope not. But those first two days can be murder.” I smiled. He did not. I felt my uterus shriveling, as if his disapproving gaze was bringing on menopause.

Finally, he blinked. “I’m Jonathan Kent. This way.” I followed him into a big, sunny room divided into cubicles. One of the men gave me a half smile and, unless I was wrong, an eye roll.

“You have an appointment at eleven, Mr. Kent,” the receptionist said.

Mr. Kent, huh? He couldn’t be past forty, but he sure didn’t give off that easygoing Mark Zuckerberg vibe.

There was only one office on the floor—his. It was scary-neat, a clean desk (sign of a sick mind), one photo facing him. On the wall, a painting of, you guessed it, the Hudson River. A bookcase that contained books only, no statues, no photos, nothing personal at all.

“Remind me why you’re here,” he said, sitting behind the desk. “You want an internship, your mother says?”

“No, and she’s my stepmother. Not my mother. Candy, that is. Um, you’re looking for a features editor?”

Another long, pained, uterus-shriveling glance. “How old are you?”

“I believe it’s against the law to ask that question.” He stared. “Thirty,” I added.

“You look younger.” It wasn’t a compliment.

He stared at my résumé, glanced up at me. I smiled, or continued to smile, as the case was. He didn’t smile back. Looked at the papers again. My smile felt stiff. The left corner of my mouth was twitching.

People usually liked me right away.

Jonathan Kent wore a suit, and his tie was not loosened. He was clean-shaven, which was kind of rare these days. Dark hair combed back severely. Cheekbones like dorsal fins, and those pale eyes. He was neither attractive nor ugly. Generic Caucasian male with potential to be a serial killer, please. Back when I was the receptionist at NBC, I’d made calls for the casting director.

“Do you really want to work here?” he asked, looking up at me.

“Yes! I’m here for an interview, after all.”

He blinked. Finally. “Why?”

Because I’m bored didn’t seem like a great answer, though it would be honest. “Well, I really, uh, respect what you do and think I could positively contribute to the content of the magazine.” Ta-da! The perfect answer.

“What do we do?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What is it you think we do?”

“Is that a trick question?” No answer. “You publish a regional magazine.”

“And why would we do that?”

Because it’s a cash cow. “To showcase the beauty and vibrancy of life in the Hudson River Valley,” I said with my best Girl Scout smile.

“Your résumé says you graduated from Wagner College. I assume you have a degree in journalism?”

“Uh, no.”

“English?”

“Nope.”

“Do I have to keep guessing, Ms. O’Leary?”

I winced, then smiled to cover. “Philosophy.” Another stare. “It’s one of those degrees that can be used for anything,” I said, echoing the duplicitous guidance counselor at Wagner.

“Is it?” Mr. Kent said. I couldn’t argue that point. “You worked for Ryan Roberts.” He waited, expressionless.

“Yes.”

“Who was fired for an egregious breach of professional ethics.”

“And rehired by another network. But yes. That’s correct.”

“Putting aside your possible complicity in his journalistic deception, do you have any actual skills or education to recommend you?”

I felt a sudden rush of anger. What a rude man. Ryan had not been my fault. (Okay, fine, a little bit my fault, but mostly not.)

“Wow, Jonathan,” I said. “Those are a lot of big words. I’m not sure I follow you.” Clearly, I wasn’t going to get the job, so why not go for broke? “But after seven years with NBC, I think I can write about the great lettuces of Westchester County and who does the best boob jobs.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Have a lovely day,” I said, standing up and reaching for the door.

“You’re hired,” he said. “You’ll have a three-month probationary period. Be here tomorrow. We open at 8:30. Don’t be late, Ms. O’Leary.”

And so I went from writing news that tens of millions of people would hear to editing fluff pieces—the historic Groundhog Day parade in Smithville and the artisan potter who’d had a piece bought by the White House. Where the prettiest wedding venues were (okay, that piece I enjoyed), and how shipping lanes had changed on the Hudson.

It was fine. It was pleasant. I made friends fast, as I always did, though Jonathan failed to succumb to my charms and didn’t eat the cookies I occasionally brought in. I was just killing time, waiting for Eric to propose so we could get married and have kids.

Instead, he got cancer.

Chapter Eight

Kate

My brother and his family stayed with me for three days after Nathan died, and thank God for it. Dad was helpless and overly jocular because of it. And Mom...though she didn’t say the words, there was definitely a grim sense of I told you not to get married so fast.

It was good to have the kids there, the two teenagers making heroic efforts to talk about movies or books or school. Kiara was lovely and kind, telling me nondeath stories about the hospital. I was invited to stay with them in the city. Esther said she’d give up her bed for me. Matthias told me he’d take me out for sushi.

Sean didn’t say much. There wasn’t much to say, of course. But part of me wanted him to come up with something for me to grab on to; he was my older brother, after all, always with that slight air of superiority granted to him by being the firstborn and only son.

He had nothing other than an occasional shoulder squeeze.

Ainsley, on the other hand, had been strangely practical, dividing up the food people brought into single-serving blocks, wrapping them in foil and labeling them, leaving a few in the fridge, most in the freezer. She and Eric had come for dinner last night, along with our parents, and I saw her and Eric dragging the trash cans down to the curb. Yesterday, when Sean and I went to the lawyer’s and Kiara was out with the kids, Ainsley came in and cleaned up the kitchen from our breakfast mess. She left a sweet note and a mason jar full of tulips on the kitchen table.

Sadie, the three-year-old, was the one I really wanted to be around. She didn’t really know or remember Nathan, only that “Auntie was sad” and thus appointed herself to be my keeper. Every morning they were here, my little niece climbed into my bed and ordered me to make animal sounds. Happy to oblige, I nuzzled her soft, fuzzy curls, pulling her close against me. “Kitty!” she demanded.

“Mew! Mew!”

“Gog!”

“Woof, woof!”

“Effalent!”

I took that to mean elephant and trumpeted obligingly.

“Wacoon!”

“Purr, purr.”

Her laughter sounded like water over rocks, and for a second, I’d thought that if she stayed, I could totally handle widowhood. Surely Sean and Kiara would give her to me. They had two other kids, the selfish things.

Alas, they were rather attached.

When they left on Wednesday, Kiara and Sean hugged me, and the kids tried to smile, and I tried not to cling too hard as my brother took Sadie out of my arms.

Then they pulled out of the stone driveway, leaving me alone in Nathan’s house.

A storm of panic started flinging debris in my head. What would I do? Could this really be my new life? Was it possible to rewind and skip Eric’s party? Or maybe...rewind and just say no when Nathan called for that first date? How could Nathan be dead? What was I supposed to do? Actually do in the next few hours?

I didn’t know.

I had no idea how to be a widow. I wanted to be brave. To make Nathan proud of me. To be elegant and kind. I could see myself in Paris, wearing a black Audrey Hepburn–style turtleneck, a glass of red wine in my hand as I stared out at the street, melancholy but noble. Perhaps I would take up smoking, just one a day, for effect. Men would look at me, intrigued, but that slight air of sorrow would keep them at arm’s length. I’d walk back to my garret, where I would continue to work on my...uh...my poetry, let’s say, and not the more realistic scenario of ripping open a bag of Cheetos and watching HBO.

I shivered. It was cooler than normal, and rainy.

I guess I had to go inside, into that enormous, empty house.

Okay. First step. A shower, probably. And then groceries. People had been bringing food over, lots and lots of food, but I hadn’t left the house since the cemetery. I needed half-and-half, which Matthias had mistaken for milk this morning and finished off. I couldn’t face the morning without coffee back when I was happy, let alone now. Ainsley would be happy to get it for me, I was sure, but I had to leave the house sometime and do something normal.

Nathan’s bathrobe was still on the hook on the back of the bathroom door. I didn’t touch it, afraid that something inside me would break. His toothbrush was still in the shower. I hated that he brushed his teeth in there, for some reason. It struck me as wrong, spitting at your own feet. So far, I hadn’t said anything.

I caught myself. So far. I wouldn’t have the chance to say anything, ever. Nathan’s legacy of spitting in the shower would last forevermore.

“No, no, that’s good,” I told myself. “He wasn’t perfect.” Yes! Remember his flaws. He spit in the shower! I’d never have to put up with that anymore! Score one for widowhood!

My chest hurt so much it was hard to take a full breath. I almost wished it was a heart attack. Then I could go to the hospital and get taken care of. Maybe they’d put me in a medically induced coma, and when I woke up, everything would be okay again. Maybe Nathan would be by my bedside. Or maybe I’d die and see him in heaven, the heaven I couldn’t quite picture.

I showered fast, threw on some yoga pants and a sweatshirt. Dared not look in Nathan’s closet, where all his beautiful clothes were. He had a thing for cashmere sweaters. Probably had twenty of them, and if I saw one now, I’d crumple.

I went downstairs, couldn’t find my phone and went into the den (or study). There it was, right in front of Hector’s bowl. “I’m leaving,” I said to my fish, who mouthed obligingly. “Need anything? Tampons? Got it.”

Speaking of tampons, I still didn’t have my period. Probably, I was pregnant. Screw those tests that said I wasn’t. It was just too soon to show up, that’s all.

I got in the car—a battered Volkswagen Golf that was good for holding all my photography gear. It had more than a hundred thousand miles on it, and Nathan and I had discussed getting another car, one with four-wheel drive, big enough for car seats and diaper bags. He’d blushed, and that awkwardness wriggled again—kids with a guy I hadn’t known for even a year.

That conversation had taken place just a few weeks ago.

I realized I was gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

“Turn on the radio, Kate,” I said aloud. I hadn’t slept much lately, and my brain was fuzzy. I started the car, backed carefully out of the driveway, still worried that I’d take down the mailbox, then headed out. On the radio, a man-child scatted and falsettoed about being dumped. “Maybe if your testicles dropped, she would’ve stayed,” I said, then laughed. Hey, look at me! Laughing! See? All was not lost.

I rolled down the windows, the smell of rain and soil hitting me. Spring was here, wedding season. I was booked almost every Saturday from May through August. Maybe going to weddings wasn’t a smart idea. Would I cry? Would I run out, sobbing? Or would I just do what I’d been doing for the past fifteen years?

Oh, goody, a song I liked! “Lose Yourself” by Eminem. Good, good. Very inspirational, seize the moment, step into your power, all that Oprah-speak, but with cussing.

At a stoplight, I found that I was singing the bass line—“Whump whump whump whump bump bump bump bump. You better lose yourself—” And that was where I didn’t know the lyrics but kept singing anyway. You go, Eminem, foul-mouthed genius from the bad side of town! Yeah! “You only get one shot something something something yo!”

My eye caught the car next to me. The driver gave me a nod. I smiled and kept singing. Maybe she liked Eminem, too. She didn’t smile back.

Ah, shit. It was Madeleine, Nathan’s first wife.

Here I was, pretending to be a skinny white rapper, and she looked like...well, like someone had died.

The horn behind me blared, and I floored it, then braked hard as I turned into Whole Foods.

For a second there, I’d forgotten that Nathan was dead.

Inside the grocery store, it was as cold as a morgue. Poor choice of words.

I couldn’t remember what I’d come for. Vegetables? Why not? Whole Foods did have the prettiest produce in the entire world, even if it did cost a million trillion dollars. I tossed a cucumber into my cart. Too bad I didn’t have my camera; the eggplant was downright seductive, all that smooth, dark color gleam. I grabbed one of those, too. I loved eggplant parmesan, not that I’d ever made it before. But I had lots of time on my hands now, didn’t I?

Yes. I’d become a great cook. I’d channel Ainsley and tie on an apron and cook really nice dinners. Salads and everything. Candles on the table, because Nathan had the coolest candleholders. He actually bought those Jo Malone candles that cost the earth and smelled like heaven. Did straight men buy Jo Malone candles? Did they? I guess it didn’t matter anymore.

Nathan had plenty of china, too, and glasses for every beverage under the sun—water, wine (red, white, champagne), whiskey tumblers, martini glasses, all matching, which I still found thrilling. Not to mention his enchanting silverware, designed by a Hungarian woman whose work was featured in the Cooper Hewitt. I knew this because Nathan told me. He was very proud of those forks and spoons.

He’d never eat off those plates again. Never sit at his own table again. Never use one of his perfectly balanced, adorable spoons for ice cream.

Then again, I could paint the dining room. Honestly, every room in the house was white. I was dying to slap some red on a wall somewhere.

That rusty spike seemed to slam through my throat again in an actual, physical pain, as if someone with very strong hands was intent on killing me.

“Kate, isn’t it?”

I looked up. An older woman was addressing me. “Yes. Hello.”

“I’m Corinne Lenster. Eloise’s friend? I was at the funeral, but of course, so was the entire town.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, though I didn’t recognize her. “How are you?”

She smiled sadly. “I’m so sad for you, dear. Nathan was such a wonderful young man. He and my son were friends in high school. He and Robbie—my son—went skiing in Utah their senior year, and they got stuck on the lift, and Robbie...”

Her voice droned on, but the words started blurring together.

Nathan had never mentioned this story. I didn’t know he’d gone skiing in Utah. Did I even know he liked skiing? Yes, yes, I did. We actually went skiing in Vermont over Thanksgiving weekend. Right, right.

But this story? This Robbie-stuck-on-a-lift person? I didn’t know him. Why hadn’t Nathan ever told this story? What else didn’t I know? How was it that there was a great (maybe) story from his youth, and I didn’t know it? Hmm? Huh?

What’s-her-name kept talking. She was extremely well dressed for the grocery store, I noted. I was wearing my If Daryl Dies, We Riot T-shirt. Must avoid Walking Dead references when one is a new widow. Must also remember to wear a bra.

God. She was still talking. Was this normal, people ambushing widows in the grocery store to tell them things they didn’t know about their husbands? I nodded as if I was following the story, and the spike in my throat turned harder.

In the background, I suddenly heard the piped-in music. “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston (who was also dead).

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I said.

“Excuse me?” the woman said.

“It’s the grief talking.” Someone else had said that. It was a good line. I planned on using it often. Horribly, laughter rolled through my stomach. I clamped my lips together hard. Nathan, do you see this?

The lady nodded. “Dear...you’re not wearing shoes.”

I looked down. “Huh. Look at that! I wondered why the floor was so cold.” My toenails were still bloodred. Nathan had painted them for me as I lay on the couch one night a couple of weeks ago.

“Perhaps you should go home,” she said.

“I need half-and-half,” I said. Aha! That was what I was here for! “Bye. Nice talking to you.” With that, I pushed my cart down the aisle, my eggplant and cucumber trembling with the cart’s faulty wheel action. Over the PA, Whitney changed keys, bringing it home. “And I-aye-aye...will always...love you-ooh-ooh-ooh...”

Maybe I should sing along. This one’s for you, Nathan Coburn! I could grab that cucumber and pretend it was a mic and let loose.

Puffs and squeaks of laughter leaked out—poor dead Whitney was killing me.

Oh, what was this? Organic pumpkin pie ice cream sandwiches in April? Hooray! Someone up there must like me, and three guesses as to who it was! The hysterical laughter wriggled and leaped inside my chest, making me snort some more.

Probably, I looked insane. No shoes, no bra, Daryl Dixon on my chest, eggplant, cucumber, pumpkin pie ice cream bars in my cart.

The floor was really freezing. My feet would be filthy. The polish needed changing. But if I changed the polish, it would be gone forever, The Polish That Nathan Applied. Nathan would not return from the dead to give me a pedicure.

The laughter stopped.

I’d leave that bloodred polish on until it chipped off.

Cause of death: cerebral hemorrhage.

Please, Higher Power. Please that it was painless. Please that he wasn’t scared.

He hadn’t looked scared. He’d only looked...dead.

In front of the dairy case was an old, old woman, creeping, creeping, inching along. She stopped right in front of the half-and-half and opened her purse. Shuffled through it. She had several thousand coupons to consider. I considered reaching around her, then decided it would be rude. Waited. Waited some more.

I had the sudden urge to ram her with my cart.

Why was she still alive? She looked to be a hundred and forty-three years old, and she was still alive! Why wasn’t she the one who’d died, huh? Riddle me that, Batman. Why was my thirty-eight-year-old husband dead and this crone still allowed to be here, trying to save a dime on nondairy creamer?

“Would you help me, dear?” she asked. “I can’t see if this coupon’s expired.” She held out a piece of paper in her age-spotted, gnarled hands.

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