On Second Thought(77)

I strode westward, my face hot, joints zinging painfully with the adrenaline rush.

There were benches placed along the path with plaques on them—In celebration of the life of Howard Betelman. In loving memory of James Wellbright.

Maybe I’d get one for Nathan. He’d like that. We’d come to this park last fall and made out on one of these benches. I wondered which one. It was under a tree, I remembered that.

In honor of Marnie and Joel Koenig from their lucky children. Nice. This might’ve been the bench we sat on that beautiful day. The tree’s leaves had glowed with gold so intense the air seemed to shimmer, and it had been so incredibly romantic, like the stock photos I occasionally sold to Getty Images. Type in the search words, and you’d see just such a picture—adults, love, romance, autumn.

Maybe it wasn’t this bench. Maybe it was the next one.

Did he bring Madeleine here, too?

The thought punched me in the stomach. It was too hard to think about. Better to be pissed off about Mom making salmon for Sean and not me.

I came upon the next bench and lurched to a stop.

In honor of Nathan Vance Coburn III, a wonderful son, brother, uncle and friend.

What? What?

He had a bench already? Who did this? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I was his widow, for God’s sake! I was going to buy him a bench, did I not just have that exact thought two minutes ago?

And hold on one second, my brain said. There’s a word missing, isn’t there?

Why yes, there is. Husband. The missing word is husband.

The Coburns had bought a bench for Nathan and not told me about it. Why? Eloise and I had had another lunch at the club last week, and she’d said nothing!

I yanked out my phone to call them and demand an answer, then shoved it right back in. I was too mad. Furious, in fact. I turned around, not wanting to see his name, not wanting to see that bench with its stupid bronze plaque, and stomped back to the bench for the couple with the lucky kids.

My heart was roaring, my face on fire.

This was turning into a really shitty night.

There was the playground. Watch the little kiddies, Kate. They don’t have a care in the world.

Three little girls about Sadie’s age chased each other around, laughing and shrieking. Their mother (or nanny) had long blond hair and a serene look on her face. A cute guy approached and handed her a cup of coffee (or booze) and touched her shoulder briefly.

On autopilot, and so I wouldn’t have to think about that stupid bench, I fished my Canon out of my bag and aimed it at them.

They were still new, these two. He had smiley eyes and dimples not reflected in the little girls’ faces. They were sisters, maybe even triplets, I guessed; the blonde woman was clearly their mother, but this guy wasn’t the dad. And he was smitten.

There was a story there, I was sure.

That was what I loved about photography. It told me more about a person than I could ever discern in real life.

What would I see in those last pictures of Nathan? A man who’d made a mistake? Who wanted to be with his ex-wife? Who was biding his time until he could get free of his impulsive rebound marriage?

I put my camera down and squeezed the bridge of my nose.

There were more happy screams from the playground as a fresh batch of kids came streaming in, running, climbing, hurling themselves down the slide without any thought of danger.

Oh, God, be careful, I thought. Don’t bump your heads. Don’t fall down. Don’t have a tiny vascular defect. Don’t die.

My breath was scraping in and out, in-out, in-out, in-out. Gray spots splotched my vision, and I bent over, but no, that didn’t help, was it supposed to help? I was here all alone, no one knew where I was. Ainsley would come, she’d help me, she was so good at this, but shit, she was doing something for work and I couldn’t breathe, my lungs were stuck closed, I was about to die.

Sweat blossomed over me like a virus, and my hands started to shake.

I groped for my phone to call my dad, but it spilled out of my numb fingers. I reached for it, sliding off the bench, my knees stinging on the asphalt.

I was fainting. Or dying. The sound of my own breathing grew fainter.

“Kate?”

Someone had me by the shoulders.

Daniel the Hot Firefighter. Good. I wouldn’t die alone. I clutched his arms. “Hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn,” I managed.

He smiled. “You’re having a panic attack, aren’t you? Okay, don’t worry. They’re not fatal.” He pulled me back onto the bench and put his arm around me. “Jane!” he yelled. “Over here. I’ll be a while.”

“Hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn.” If this Jane person answered, I didn’t hear over the sound of my terror. What was that horse movie? Where the horse ran all day and all night across the desert? Hidalgo, that was it. I sounded like Hidalgo.

“So I’m here with my sister and her bratty kids,” Daniel said, as if I was a normal person and not a dying horse. His fingers were on my wrist. “The ice-cream truck comes around, so I’m using that as a bribe. The little one? She’s the devil, I swear to God. I told my sister to call the exorcist.”

“Heart...attack,” I managed.

“Probably not. Just take a deep breath and try to calm down.”

“No!” I squeaked, my throat too tight to get out normal sound. “My husband died getting me—hehn—a glass of wine! I can’t—hehn—calm down. Do something!” Because my heart was way, way too fast and pretty soon it would explode.