On Second Thought(50)

     



 

I hoped my ass looked good in this skirt.

"Cool it," I muttered to myself.

But the flustered feeling stayed with me all the way home.





Chapter Twenty

Kate

On the first Friday in June, two months into the all-fun, all-the-time  journey that was widowhood, I came home from shooting a wedding and  decided to read Nathan's emails to and from Madeleine.

I don't know why then. Maybe because the bride and groom had seemed  genuinely happy, their faces showing me nothing through the lens except  simple joy. It made me wonder if my marriage had been as happy as I'd  thought.

Maybe it was because I'd been to the widows and widowers group again.  LuAnn, the orangey woman who'd lost her police officer husband, had told  us about cleaning out his closet and finding a Christmas present for  her, already wrapped, or possibly forgotten from last year, unsure of  whether or not she should open it.

Maybe it was because the house was quiet; Ainsley was out with friends.  One of these days, I'd have to call Jenny and Kim and let them know I  was up for a night out. Jenny had mentioned her sister, too, newly  divorced, a mother of three. All I had to do was reach out, which had  always been a little hard for me.

Maybe I decided to read those emails tonight because I got an invitation  from the Re-Enter Center-a fund-raiser next week, one of many they had  throughout the year-and it reminded me of Daniel. The last time I'd seen  him, we'd talked about those emails, and I still hadn't pulled the  trigger.

Whatever the reason, I poured myself a big-ass glass of wine, chugged  half of it and went into the den (or study). Hector, who'd clearly felt  ousted as number one pet since Ollie had come to live with us, was  delighted to see me, wriggling vigorously in his bowl. "Hi, buddy," I  said, waving at him. "You got my back here? Yeah? Good. Let's do this."

I sat in Nathan's chair and turned on Nathan's computer. Swallowed some  more of Nathan's wine and dived right in. There was the MRT folder.

I clicked on the earliest email and started, taking care to read every sentence slowly, every reply from my dead husband.

Madeline Rose Trentham was a good writer, I'd give her that.

The nutshell version: she'd asked him to dump me and give her another  chance, and she wanted his babies now, and theirs was a love too great  to be denied, even if it would be hurtful to "her." (Me, of course.  Madeleine referred to me only in pronouns. Didn't type my name once, the  bitch.)

He said no.

But he didn't say No, I love Kate more than I ever loved you. She's the  moon of my life, my sun and stars. (Yes, yes, I'd been watching Game of  Thrones again.)

He didn't say She's everything to me and I love my life with her.

He didn't say Piss off, Madeleine, and stay out of my life.

Instead, he said it was too late. Things with me had gone too far. He'd  gotten used to life without her. He and I were a good match.

I know. It sets the heart afire, right?

He said he loved me in a different way, and if it wasn't as tempestuous  as the way he'd loved Madeleine, he felt he and I would be-wait for  it-content.

The bastard. If I could've ripped the spike out of my throat and shoved it into his, I would have.

Content, my ass. I rocked his world. Didn't I? We had sex against the  wall, thank you very much! Of course I rocked it! The ingrate!

And yet, reading his words made my whole body ache, because I could hear Nathan's voice, even if he wasn't talking to me.

The gentleness, the kindness.

The love.

Because he did still love her.

There was anger, too. That was one emotion I'd never heard from my  husband. We'd bickered here and there, and he'd been irritable and sulky  once or twice (it was once), but he'd never been mad at me.

Suddenly, that seemed like a big problem.

So he was settling for me. She was the love of his life-passion, anger, fire, love-and I was contentment.

Yay, me.

Their emails started back when Nathan and I were getting serious. When I  was starting to let myself think that maybe I had actually found the  one, Nathan was debating with his ex-wife.

Him: I can't do that to her just because you're afraid of being alone.

Her: You know how I feel. You've always known.

Him: It's not the same as it was with you.

What did that mean, huh? Was that a compliment or an insult?

The emails were mostly from before we got married, when Madeleine  clearly thought she had a chance to change his mind. However, on January  6, five days after our wedding, she'd sent him this: I can't believe  you went through with it. Oh, Nathan, what have you done?         

     



 

He didn't answer that one.

Another one, telling him about a dream she'd had where they were  together and had a baby, and they were so happy, and it was so right.  Gack.

On Valentine's Day, which was apparently their anniversary, she'd sent another one:

My whole soul is shredded by thoughts of you. Our tenth anniversary-ten  years today! How can my life be going on without you? I ruined  everything. I'm sobbing right now, alone and broken, and I know I  shouldn't be writing to you, but I'm so very, truly sorry for  everything, Nathan. I miss you more than I can say, I love you so much,  and I know I have no right to tell you that, but it's true.

She sounded drunk to me. Speaking of, my wine was gone.

Nathan had brought me a beautiful bouquet of orchids for Valentine's  Day, a glorious riot of white veined with red. I made him dinner, rare  for me, and went all out-oysters, Cornish game hen stuffed with  cranberries and corn bread, early asparagus and scalloped potatoes. For  dessert, I'd made tiny red velvet cakes in the shape of hearts; I'd  bought the cake pans at Williams-Sonoma a month before. I gave him a  framed photo of the two of us, that selfie I'd taken in September, me  standing behind him, kissing his cheek, him smiling right into the  camera.

He'd been preoccupied. A sticky issue with a zoning ordinance, he said.

Ordinance, my ass. He sure as hell didn't mention that today would've been his anniversary to his first wife.

He did answer that tragic Heathcliff Loves Cathy Valentine's email. Not  the way I wished he had, oh, no. What I wanted to read was Kate  completes me. She baked me tiny red velvet cakes, and they were  fantastic! By the way, I can't even remember your face. I wanted him to  threaten a restraining order.

But the truth was now in front of me, because he answered:

I miss you, too. But Kate is my wife now.

Daniel had been right. I shouldn't have read these.

On December 12 of last year, it had been snowing heavily, and Nathan and  I had gone for a walk. Most of Cambry-on-Hudson was closed in the way  that the 'burbs shut down in the snow, no one trusting their Range  Rovers and Mercedes SUVs to actually handle five inches of the white  stuff.

It had been almost completely quiet, the only sound the slight hiss of  snow falling and the squeak of our boots. We walked and walked, our  cheeks pink, hands cold, but it was so magical, the tree branches  bending with the heavy weight of white. We walked through the nature  preserve that his great-grandfather donated to the town until we stood  at the top of a ridge that overlooked the Hudson River, our breaths  fogging the air, laughing as we slipped a little, holding hands,  steadying each other.

Then Nathan dropped to one knee. "Will you marry me, Kate?" he asked,  and I remembered how sweetly shy he looked, those blond eyelashes, his  eyes so blue, the snow falling on his hair.

Of course I said yes.

Now, staring at my fish in his fancy bowl, the roots of the plant waving gently in the water, I had another answer.

"On second thought, no," I said, my voice too loud. Hector seemed to flinch.

Because if I'd known Nathan still missed his ex-wife-if I'd known that  he'd categorize our relationship as contentment-I wouldn't be his widow  now.

* * *

On Saturday, I went to see my in-laws.

"Kate, deah," Eloise said. "Do come in. Shall I get you some coffee? Perhaps some iced tea? Please, come sit on the patio."

Their house was a brick Georgian, gracious and old. Nathan had grown up  here, played hide-and-seek with his sister. Once, he fell asleep in the  cupboard under the window seat, legend had it, and it had taken hours to  find him.

Probably, he and Madeleine had made out here a few times. Possibly more.  Nathan and I had never done more than hold hands in the presence of his  parents.

"Hello, Kate," Mr. Coburn said, rising to kiss my cheek.

"Hello," I said, never able to call him by his first name. "It's good to see you."

He seemed sober, but my God, how he'd aged in these past two months! The  skin on his face was loose, and his eyes seemed to have faded in color.

We sat awkwardly on their slate patio, where Nathan had envisioned the  new bedroom/bathroom/sunroom addition. I accepted some iced tea, though I  hated it. The lemon always made my teeth feel stripped like old wood.

"How are Miles and Atticus?" I asked.

"They're very well," Eloise answered. "Miles will start at camp next  week, and Atticus is enrolled in an art class. He's quite a gifted  painter, Brooke says."

My heart hurt. As ever, I wondered how Eloise could do it-make pleasant  small talk, allow that gleam of pride in her eyes as she smiled over her  grandsons. Mr. Coburn stared into the middle distance.