On Second Thought(80)

He nodded. “Exactly.”

“My husband had an ex-wife,” I heard myself say. “And they stayed in touch right up until he died, but I didn’t know about it. He saved all their emails, and I know I shouldn’t read them, but I’m pretty sure I will.”

“Don’t.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Kate. Don’t.”

“Why? Because then I’ll see that I was his runner-up? Because then I might find out that he was going to come home one night and say, ‘On second thought, Kate, I’m still in love with Madeleine. Can you move out this weekend?’” I took a hit of wine. “And no matter what they say or don’t say, he’s still dead. I’m still the widow, and I barely got to be a wife.”

Daniel didn’t say anything.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “Verbal diarrhea. I better check the stew.”

The stew was ready, bubbling and hot, and I found a loaf of gorgeous bread that smelled like rosemary and olive oil. I set out some cheese and got down the bowls, and we ate in the kitchen like two old friends.

Which I guessed we were.

“I better get back,” Daniel said after his third bowl of stew and half a loaf of bread. “I have to work in the morning.”

“Let me drive you.”

“To Brooklyn? Nah.”

“I meant to your sister’s place, or the train station.”

“I’m taking the train, but I’ll walk. I like rain.” He gave me a hug, and I registered the hard muscles and strong frame, the nice smell of him. “Don’t read those emails. But if you do, call me if you want.”

A kiss on the cheek, and he was gone, the smell of rain gusting into the kitchen, leaving me alone once more.





Chapter Nineteen

Ainsley

Over the weekend, I fluttered around Kate’s house, bought a few pots of flowers from the garden center for her patio, which looked so lonely, then made spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. We watched a movie in her home theater, and Kate fell asleep halfway through. It was a good thing, anyway. The husband in it died, and why hadn’t I checked that first? Granted, it was billed as a suspense, filled with unexpected twists, but there should’ve been a widow-warning on it.

On Sunday, I went to Rachelle’s, in case Kate wanted some time without me. Rachelle made margaritas, bless her heart, and we stalked men on the internet who had liked her Match.com profile. We didn’t look up Eric.

At night, back home in the chic bedroom that still felt like a hotel, I held Pooh to my chest and surprised myself by crying. Honestly, while I didn’t envy Kate losing Nathan, at least Nathan got to stay...pure. More than a decade of happiness with Eric was now tainted by the now of him. I’d never be able to think of him without remembering that smug look on his face at the Algonquin. I hoped he’d get eaten by a bear and an orca whale out in Alaska.

But still, tears trickled into my hair. Where was the boy who stayed in the bathroom with me when I had food poisoning that time, when I was so drenched in sweat that I kept sliding off the toilet? Forget roses and diamond rings, that was love. Where was the guy who held me every night because, by his own admission, he loved the smell of my hair and couldn’t fall asleep unless I was snuggled against him? Had he found someone else with nice-smelling hair? Or did he now carry a lock of his own to sniff?

How did you just stop loving someone in the space of weeks? That guy in the blue light drinking a pink martini...that guy was a stranger.

I tossed and turned, filled with half dreams that we never broke up, or that he, and not Nathan, had died. That he’d written another column about me, and I didn’t know what it said, but everyone was mad at me because of it, even my dad.

So no wonder I slept through my alarm, which I’d set ten minutes earlier than normal so I could get to work on time.

I did not get to work on time. I was four minutes late.

“Ainsley, can I see you in my office?” Jonathan said.

My face flushed.

I’d thought about him, too, this weekend. How unexpectedly kind he’d been. How his eyes were so special and hypnotic up close. How I was almost positive that twice, he’d said something nice to me.

I went into his office and closed the door behind me. “Hi. Did you have a nice weekend?”

“You were late again.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Is it really so hard to be on time, Ainsley?” His voice was irritable.

I blinked. Apparently, those two nice things were signs of my overactive imagination. “I’m sorry. I’ll stay four minutes late tonight.”

“It happens at least four times a week.”

“I tried! I did set my alarm earlier this morning, but I slept through it. It’s the wind chimes ringtone. I guess I need a foghorn or a siren alert, because I just dreamed that it was windy, and so I kept sleeping, and—”

“That’s enough explanation. Thank you.”

He stared at me. Today, his eyes didn’t look like a beautiful mosaic of green and blue and gold—they just looked icy. It made me feel off balance. Here he’d taken me out to dinner on Friday and for a carriage ride. Now he was acting like he could barely tolerate me. Again.

“Was there anything else, Mr. Kent?”

“Yes. I need your pitches for the December issue by ten o’clock.”