The Good Widow(69)

The morning after Nick and I returned home from Maui, Beth was on my doorstep with coffee. I knew it was her excuse to come over early so she could grill me about Nick. I told her I had developed feelings for him, because there was no other way to describe it. Was it more than that? Less? My body and heart said one thing (Yes! Yes! Yes!) and my mind chanted another (Be careful!). Beth warned me to take it slow, and I blushed before admitting it was too late for that—we’d already made love for the first time the night before.

She shook her head at me. “I hope this isn’t a rebound. You’re both definitely due for one.”

Her words had stung, but I wasn’t ignorant—I knew there was truth to them. But rebound or not, the way I feel about Nick is difficult to explain with words. It’s more of a feeling, like maybe he’s the silver lining in the dark cloud that’s been hanging over me. Nick and I have been moving at a pace that both scares and exhilarates me. I’ve decided if I’ve learned one lesson in all of this, it’s that life can be frighteningly short. So you might as well live it.

My phone vibrates. A text from Nick telling me he misses me. I scroll up. He’s sent three since this morning. I can’t help but smile.

I turn my phone on silent so I can focus. And I stare at the box again. I don’t have to pull back the cardboard sleeves to know what I’m going to find inside the special box. I can already feel the lace of my garter that I wore on my thigh under my wedding dress—my “something new” that Beth purchased at a sex shop. It’s hideous, red and black with silver fringe. Her intention. To remind me even vixens could wear white. I can see the pale-blue photo album, filled with snapshots of our history, the way we used to do it before those websites started creating them for us. I’m going to see pictures of James celebrating his twenty-ninth birthday, a shot glass filled with whiskey raised up high, me snuggled into the crook of his arm. I’m going to remember Beth’s beautiful vow renewal at the Hotel del Coronado—how she’d famously cried happy tears as she walked down the aisle, her sassy short white satin dress flapping in the wind.

And when I dig deeper to the bottom, I’m going to touch the heart-shaped tin. The one that holds our letters to each other. The words we wrote when we were still so in love. The poem from our second anniversary. The proof that he loved me. That I loved him. That we were a we. The words that will continue to live on after him.

I watch Beth as she takes James’s sport coat off the hanger and folds it neatly. She stacks it in the box marked with his mother’s name. Isabella had texted me back with a list of what she wants, and I’m also putting additional things in that I know she’ll cherish. I check my phone—it’s nearly 4:00 p.m., and she’ll be here soon.

I decide I need to rip the tape like I would a Band-Aid, and I find our wedding album sitting on top. “Will you put this in Isabella’s box?” I hand it to Beth without opening it.

“Are you sure?”

I nod as a tear falls down my cheek. “She planned the whole thing anyway. And he looked so handsome that day. She’ll love having it.”

I sift through the box, taking deep breaths as I contemplate what to keep. I don’t want to lose too much of James, but I don’t want to lose myself either. It’s a fine line.

I dig toward the bottom, my fingers feeling for the tin. I start tossing everything out: an envelope full of movie ticket stubs, a foam finger from our first Dodgers game, a program from The Lion King. The tears start to fall harder now. The dam has been broken.

“What is it? What’s happening?” Beth crouches down beside me as I sob.

“It’s not here.”

“What?”

“Our letters. Our words. His words.”

“Are you sure? Let me look.” She leans over the box.

“I already did. It’s not there, Beth.”

Beth searches for a moment and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t see it either. But I’m sure it will turn up. Maybe you moved it? Remember what a haze you were in after everything happened? Is it possible you took it out and didn’t put it back?”

I don’t remember taking it out. But Beth is right: the weeks after James’s death were surreal, and many of my memories of that time are cloudy. Unfortunately, save for the pictures Beth boxed up right after James died and my favorite sweatshirt of his, this tin is the only thing I believe I can’t live without.

Beth hugs me, and I cry until I can’t anymore, amazed by how many tears I have inside me. That I keep believing they will eventually dry up.

“This sucks,” I say into her shoulder.

“I know.” Beth squeezes me.

The doorbell rings. I pull away and wipe my face with the sleeve of my sweater. “Shit. That must be Isabella. How do I look?” I say as I stand up.

“Like you’ve been bawling for hours,” Beth says gently.

“It’s fine. She’s seen me looking even worse than this, I’m sure.” But I wipe under my eyes and run a finger through my hair anyway.

I walk to the door, my heartbeat speeding up slightly. I haven’t seen her since the memorial. Isabella had been somewhat stoic, thanks to the two Xanax I saw her sister slip her that morning. I suck in a long breath and open the door.

Nick grins and pulls a bouquet of red roses from behind his back.