On Second Thought(40)

"So what's new with you?" I asked, dipping my finger in the wine and  letting Ollie sniff it. Not his vintage, apparently, because he jumped  down and trotted back to his blanket.

"Oh, let's see. Judy came to see me at work today," Ainsley said. "To  beg me not to give up on Eric just yet. She thinks he's got PTSD."

I thought he had asshole-itis, personally. I'd seen a snippet of him on  Good Morning America and hit Off so fast I nearly broke the remote.  "What if he does come crawling back, Ainsley? Would you give it a shot?"

She didn't answer right away, putting the spinach in the frying pan. "I  never pictured a life without him," she said, not looking at me. "I know  we had a...retro kind of relationship, but it really was all I ever  wanted. So I guess I'd try to forgive him, sure. He'd deserve that after  eleven years, right? I mean, what else would I do? It's not like I love  my job. I was never the career people you and Sean are."

"You were so good at NBC," I said.

"You mean covering for America's most lying newsman?"

"You can't take the blame on that. You didn't know."

She was quiet for a minute. "Eric exaggerated on his blog, too."

"Yeah, no kidding."

"You knew?"

I snorted. "Of course I did."

"Do all men lie, do you think?" she asked.

"All people lie at one point or another." I paused. "Dad lied to Mom for years."

"Right." She nudged the potatoes. "Did Nathan?"

I paused. "No. I don't think so."

"He was so nice."

For a second, I imagined Nathan coming in here, wearing one of his  beautiful suits, tossing his keys into the tasteful wooden bowl he had  for the sole purpose of holding keys, and saying, Was? What do you mean,  was? He'd kiss me and then go hug Ainsley and say something nice to  her...and...and...

His face was growing blurry to me.

That horrible spike was back in my throat. I took another healthy sip of wine.

"What's it like?" Ainsley asked, her pretty face kind. She still looked twelve to me.

I didn't answer for a moment. It feels like someone peeled off my skin.  Everything hurts or stings or bleeds. I don't even feel like a person  anymore, just a raw piece of meat that has to get out of bed.

Some things you just didn't want to put into words. "It's like being in a  dream. Like I'll wake up in my old apartment and think, ‘Wow, that felt  so real!'"

"Does the group help?"

I'd gone twice now. "Yeah, it does, actually. Just knowing they're  alive. Leo's really happy these days. Even LuAnn-you know, the one with  the makeup and the Bronx accent? She's heartbroken, but she's still  laughing. So. Maybe I'll get there."

"You will."

The wine was giving me a nice buzz. "That photo shoot I did in Brooklyn  the other day? That was a good day. I saw an old friend. It was fun."

"You deserve some fun."

"It was nice while I was there, like yeah, I lost my husband, but I  could handle it. And then I got back home here, and I ended up sleeping  on the couch, because our bed is just so big."

I wasn't used to this...heart-to-hearts with my sister, who'd always  seemed so different from me, so much younger. Yet here she was, pretty  much saving my life by living here, even if it wasn't her choice. "I  felt like I was cheating on him," I went on. "Because I'd had a nice  day. Had dinner with a friend, who's a good-looking guy."

"So no nice days for the widow. And you have to ditch all your  good-looking friends. Got it." She cocked an eyebrow at me. "You think  Nathan would want you to be miserable? Don't you think he feels guilty  enough, dying and leaving you alone? Get real, Kate. If you have a good  day, grab on to it. Now sit. Dinner's ready."

She chattered about work, about a coworker named Rachelle who'd gone out  with a guy who owned seventeen ferrets he regarded as his children, but  because he had a job and paid for dinner, Rachelle agreed to a second  date. About how the magazine would be sponsoring a Thanksgiving pie  contest, and all the ingredients had to be from within a fifty-mile  radius.         

     



 

She was gifted at charm. I never valued that in her before, but I felt  like kissing her hand now. I should write to Eric and thank him for  being a self-centered idiot.

I ate enough to get me to the next meal; food had lost its taste, though  Ainsley was a great cook. Then I shooed her off to do her thing and  cleaned up the kitchen. I still didn't know where everything went, but  cleaning was satisfying, making everything perfect again, the way Nathan  had liked it. I oiled the soapstone and scrubbed the sink and looked  for the switch that would turn on the undercounter lighting, because  that was how my husband had liked it.

"Nathan?" I whispered. "Are you okay?"

There was no answer.

Maybe I'd call a medium, someone who'd know where Nathan was. She could  tell me he felt no pain and that he loved me and I should live a happy  life.

Except I already knew those things, mostly. The coroner said he died instantly.

I gave up on the light switch and went into the den (or study), found  the switch on the first try and sat down. This was where Nathan had  worked from home.

The room still smelled like him.

He'd been making a plan for his parents-a home expansion so they could  live on the first floor. Their house was huge, but formal, and he'd had  this idea of knocking out the back, redoing the kitchen and putting on a  big bedroom with a huge, wheelchair-accessible bathroom, should that  day ever come. It was going to be a surprise, these plans. Their gift  for their fiftieth anniversary.

I had a sudden flash of inspiration. I'd have someone at Nathan's firm  finish the plans-Phoebe, was that the name of the nice woman? I could  give the plans to the Coburns, and they'd have part of him, his  beautiful work, in their home for the rest of their lives.

I clicked on his mighty Mac and waited. The desktop background was our wedding picture.

There he was. The little mole on his cheek, his reddish blond hair, the  slash marks (not dimples) that showed when he smiled. Pathetically, I  touched the screen, wanting to remember what his cheek felt like.

At the bottom of the screen, the little red number on his email icon went from three to seventy-four.

Shit. I should've checked this before. I'd have to close his account.

I clicked the icon and started scrolling through the new messages.

Three were from coworkers on April 6, before he...fell. The other  seventy-one were junk mail about exciting investment opportunities and  seminars and a few for cheap Viagra.

"He didn't need it," I said to the computer.

His email folders were neatly labeled: Wildwood, Jacob's Field, Oak  Park-all developments his firm was building. I wondered if I should  forward these folders to the firm. I'd call Phoebe, if that was her  name.

There was another folder called Travel, which contained details on a few  upcoming business trips he wouldn't go on. Another called Computer  Info, which had warranty information and the like.

And there was a folder called Kate. Unable to resist, I clicked on it.

All the emails I'd ever sent him.

From the first one, sent not even a year ago, to the last-the day he died, I'd asked him to pick up (you guessed it) wine.

I'd signed it Love you, you big dork. I can't remember why I'd called  him that. I mean, he was a big dork, but... And he'd saved even that  note. Something as mundane and ordinary as that, but he'd taken the time  to file it away.

I felt the tears coming, felt my eyes moistening, and thank God. All  this time, I hadn't cried a single drop. Surely, this would make me feel  better, more normal, would start the healing process. If I could have a  good cry, maybe that spike in my throat would start to disappear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another folder.

MRT.

The tears paused. No, no, keep coming, I told them, but even then, my  hand was on the mouse, clicking the folder after only a second's pause.

All these emails were from Madeleine Rose Trentham, the former Mrs. Nathan Coburn III.

There were quite a few of them. Twenty, twenty-five. All read, some with the little purple arrow indicating a reply.

The first one was dated September 28, four or five weeks after we'd started dating.

The last one was dated April 5.

The day before he died, ninety-five days after we got married, he'd been talking to his ex-wife.





Chapter Seventeen

Ainsley

On Friday at 5:01, Jonathan and I got into his stupid Jaguar and headed into the city.

"Are you prepared for this?" Jonathan asked.

"No!" I snapped. "I told you this is a terrible idea."

He sighed and put on his signal to turn onto Route 9. "Ainsley, I  realize this is painful for you on a personal level. But professionally,  you have to acknowledge that you were the one who forced the issue with  The Cancer Chronicles. The fact that Eric finally managed to write  something interesting, while shocking, was the original point of the  column. Eric's notoriety will increase readership. Controversy sells."