The Other Mrs.(34)

But Jeffrey’s response is unexpected. “I’m afraid she and Morgan were never close” is what he says. “The upshot of divorce, I suppose,” he tells me, making light of it, de-emphasizing the fact that his daughter and wife didn’t get along. “No woman would ever outshine her mother,” he says, and I reply, “Oh,” because I can think of nothing else to say.

If Will and I were ever to divorce and he to remarry, I’d hope the boys would love me more than their stepmother. And yet Morgan was murdered. She’s dead. The little girl found her. The nonchalance surprises me. “Is she here?” I ask. “Your daughter.”

He tells me no. His daughter is in school. It’s odd, the fact that she’s at school while her stepmother is being mourned.

My surprise is visible.

He explains, “She was sick earlier this year. Pneumonia that landed her in the hospital on IV antibiotics. Her mother and I would hate for her to miss any more school.”

I’m not sure his explanation makes it better.

“It’s so hard to get caught up” is all I can come up with in a pinch.

Jeffrey thanks me for coming. He says, “Help yourself to cookies,” before looking past me to the next in line.

I go to the cookie table. I help myself to one and find a table to sit. It’s awkward sitting alone in a room where nearly no one is alone. Everyone has come with someone else. Everyone but me. I wish that Will were here. He should have come. Many of the people in the room cry, quiet, suppressed cries. Only Morgan’s mother is unreserved about her grief.

Two women brush up behind me just then. They ask if the vacant seats at the table are being saved. “No,” I tell them. “Please, help yourself,” and they do.

One of the women asks, “Were you a friend of Morgan?” She has to lean in toward me because it’s loud in the room.

A wave of relief washes over me. I’m no longer alone.

I say, “Neighbors. And you?” as I scoot my folding chair closer. They’ve left empty seats between themselves and me, which is socially appropriate. And yet it makes it hard to hear.

One of the women tells me that they’re old friends of Patty’s, Morgan’s mother. They tell me their names—Karen and Susan—and I tell them mine.

“Poor Patty is just a wreck,” Karen says, “as you can imagine.”

I tell her how unfathomable this all is. We sigh and discuss how children are supposed to lose their parents first and not the other way around. The way it’s happened with Morgan goes against the natural order of things. I think of Otto and Tate, if anything bad were to ever happen to either of them. I can’t imagine a world in which Will and I don’t die first. I don’t want to imagine a world like that, where they’re gone and I’m left behind.

“And not just once, but twice,” Susan says. The other nods grimly. I bob my head along with them, but I don’t know what they mean by this. I’m only half listening. My attention is focused on Jeffrey Baines and the way he greets mourners as they come by. There’s a smile on his face as he receives people, reaching that warm hand out to shake theirs. The smile is unbecoming for the occasion. His wife was just murdered. He shouldn’t be smiling. If nothing else, he should make an effort to appear sad.

I start to wonder if Jeffrey and Morgan argued, or if it was indifference that did them in. Indifference, a sentiment even worse than hate. I wonder if she did something to upset him, or if he simply wanted her dead, the dissolution of their marriage without a nasty battle. Or maybe it was about money. A life insurance policy to be paid out.

“Patty was never the same after that,” Susan is saying.

My eyes go to her as Karen replies, “I don’t know what she’ll do now, how she’ll get through. Losing one child is bad enough, but losing two?”

“It’s unthinkable,” Susan says. She reaches into her handbag for a tissue. She’s begun to cry. She reminisces on how distraught Patty was the first time this happened, how weeks went by that she couldn’t get out of bed. How she lost weight because of it, far too much for a woman who doesn’t have any extra weight to spare. I look at the woman, Patty, standing at the head of the receiving line. She is gaunt.

“This will ruin—” Karen begins, but before she can finish, a woman sweeps in through the door, making her way toward Jeffrey. As she does, the smile disappears from his face.

“Oh,” I hear Karen say under her breath. “Oh my. Susan. Look who’s here.”

We all look. The woman is tall like Jeffrey. She’s thin, dressed shamelessly in red while nearly everyone else in the room is in dark or muted tones. Her hair is long and dark. It falls down her back over a red top that’s floral and drapey and has a notched neckline that reveals a hint of cleavage. Her pants are tight. Over her arm hangs a winter coat. She stops just short of Jeffrey and says something to him. He attempts to take her by the arm, to lead her from the room, but she’ll have no part of that. She pulls sharply back. He leans into her, says something quietly. She puts her hands on her hips, takes on a defensive posture. Pouts.

“Who’s that?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off the woman.

They tell me. This is Courtney. Jeffrey’s first wife.

“I can’t believe that she would show up here, of all places,” Susan says.