On Second Thought
Page 31

“No, no, take your time. Look around. The corner room has a great tub. But this one has a skylight. And I love those red pillows.” She paused, pushing her hair back. Her shoes didn’t match, I noticed, and my heart twisted.
“They’re all beautiful. I really appreciate this.”
“Nathan has—had—great taste.”
“Absolutely! That’s for sure. I still can’t believe you actually live here. You’re so lucky.”
Ah, yes. Just what to say to the grief-stricken widow. Maybe I should write for Hallmark Cards. Your husband may be dead, but think of the extra closet space you’ll have! “I...I meant I love this house.”
“I know. Don’t worry. You don’t have to walk on eggshells.” She gave me a rueful smile, and I felt a twinge of little-sister hope. Then again, I’d felt that twinge once a year for my entire life.
“Thanks. We’ll have a great time.” And there I went again, saying the exact wrong thing. “I should shut up now. Sorry again.”
She laughed a little. “It’s okay. You’re a breath of fresh air.”
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Um...yeah. I think so. I just had lunch with Eloise, but I didn’t eat much.”
“I’ll cook us dinner! Okay?”
“There’s lots of food in the freezer. Well, you know that already. Thank you, by the way. For coming by and organizing stuff.” She swallowed with difficulty, it seemed. “Anyway, get settled in, and I’ll pour you some wine and you can tell me everything. It’ll be nice not to think about...my own stuff.”
“Kate.” I hesitated, then gave her a hug. “He was the nicest guy in the world.”
“You know what’s funny?” she said, her voice husky. “You knew him longer than I did.” She gave me a brisk pat on the back, then pulled away. “Check out all the rooms and pick your favorite.”
She went down the hall to her own bedroom, and I caught a glimpse of her giant bed. My heart wobbled with grief. Thirty-nine years old, and a widow.
And here Eric was having a midlife crisis. If anything, Nathan’s death should’ve taught him to cherish the people around him, the ass-hat.
This Jack London phase wasn’t going to last. Really. Eric shuddered at those shows about the Alaskan mountain men on the Discovery Channel. If he made it out of New York, I’d be stunned. But right now, I was furious. I deserved to be married. I wanted that ring, that piece of paper, that Mrs. title in front of my name, and I’d earned it.
I loved Eric, had always loved him, had always been his biggest fan.
What an idiot. Me, I meant. I wiped my eyes with angry hands.
Okay, well, I had to unpack. I opened the door to the corner room and sucked in a breath. It was impressive, all right, and so different from my bedroom at home. One entire wall was brick, and a black, modern four-poster sat in front of it, made up entirely in white. Fluffy white pillows, white on white duvet cover, a fluffy white throw. There was a vast black bureau topped with three modern long-necked bird sculptures. A furry, blissfully soft white rug on top of the cherry-stained floors. Ollie ran to it and flopped down, rolling in delight. Against one of the white walls was an asymmetrical couch, a fainting couch, I think it was called, upholstered in gray velvet with a small red pillow. The wide windows overlooked the courtyard or patio or whatever they called it. A Japanese cherry tree was in bloom, its elegant branches swaying slightly in the breeze.
I couldn’t help the juvenile pang of envy I felt. Let’s face it—Kate walked into this life without any effort on her part. A wonderful husband (I would’ve dated him if I’d been single), the prestige of marrying into the Coburn family, this incredible house.
Everything I had, I worked for. Yearned for. Spent years planning.
My own house—Eric’s house—was filled with color and comfort. Sure, we had nice things, too, but not like this. This was the kind of room an Oscar winner would sleep in.
But it was mine for now. I would read on the couch, I thought, and sip tea, and look out at the cherry blossoms while Eric rued the day.
The bathroom...whoa. I walked in and the lights turned on automatically, dimly at first, then to full power. Wow! A little room for the toilet, a separate shower and a huge wonking bathtub with eight (count ’em) jets. Long quartz countertop, strange, beautiful sink, four little succulent plants in a row.
I went back into the bedroom and pulled out my Winnie the Pooh, who’d been with me since birth. For the past eleven years, Pooh had been relegated to a shelf or chair in the guest room, as it didn’t feel right to have my beloved cuddle friend watching as Eric and I had sexy time. Now I wanted him with me again.
“I love you more than Eric,” I told Pooh and kissed his worn little nose. He wasn’t the classic Pooh; he was Disney’s version—red shirt and denim overalls. After thirty-two years of love, he was missing both eyes, just a black thread trailing down from one socket like a worm, and his red shirt had more patches than original fabric. Kate used to sew him up for me.
I set him on the bed between the pillows, a splash of comforting tackiness in all this sophistication.
Then I took out the picture of my mother and me, and put it on the night table. It was the only picture I had of the two of us.
My mother had been a beauty, that was for sure. She’d had black hair like mine. Hers was wavy in the way of a 1950s pinup girl, as if she’d slept in rollers all night. To the best of my knowledge, it was natural. Talking about her had never been encouraged.
Once, when I was about seven, I’d asked Candy if she knew my mother. “Only in the sense that your father and she were having an adulterous affair,” she said, aborting the conversation with surgical efficacy. Dad tended to say things like, “Oh, Michelle was...well. She was terrific, your mom.” And not much else.
In the picture, she was holding me on her hip, smiling right into the camera. Pooh was clutched to my chest, both eyes then intact, his fur a yellow not found in nature. My mother’s hair was blowing in the breeze, and I had on a rather adorable pout.
I’d tried a thousand times to remember that moment. Tried, and failed.
I liked to think she and I would’ve been friends. That we’d be close still, like Judy and I were, except even better. That she’d have visited me at NBC and would’ve loved Eric, would’ve helped me paint the rooms in our house and gone shopping with me for all the little things that made our place so cozy and fun.
I used to think she’d have been proud of me.
Today, though, a rejected, underemployed woman who wanted nothing more than to get back together with the man who’d dumped her...today, I wasn’t so sure.
* * *
By Monday morning, I still hadn’t heard from Eric.
That scared me, but I was trying not to think about it. After all, it had been only two days. And Kate seemed quietly glad for my company. On Saturday night, we’d watched the last half of the Yankees game to catch a glimpse of our father behind home plate, not that you could see much with all his gear.
While staring at the TV, stroking Ollie’s belly as he lay in the chair next to her, Kate told me she hadn’t had her period since Nathan died, but didn’t seem to be pregnant, either.
“I always thought you’d make a great mom,” I’d said, once again sticking my foot in it. Her face rippled with sorrow, and she didn’t look at me. When our father called the batter out, Kate said good-night. Ollie, good doggy that he was, trotted up after her.