On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

  Madeline Rose Trentham was a good writer, I'd give her that.

  The nutshell version: she'd asked him to dump me and give her another chance, and she wanted his babies now, and theirs was a love too great to be denied, even if it would be hurtful to "her." (Me, of course. Madeleine referred to me only in pronouns. Didn't type my name once, the bitch.)

  He said no.

  But he didn't say No, I love Kate more than I ever loved you. She's the moon of my life, my sun and stars. (Yes, yes, I'd been watching Game of Thrones again.)

  He didn't say She's everything to me and I love my life with her.

  He didn't say Piss off, Madeleine, and stay out of my life.

  Instead, he said it was too late. Things with me had gone too far. He'd gotten used to life without her. He and I were a good match.

  I know. It sets the heart afire, right?

  He said he loved me in a different way, and if it wasn't as tempestuous as the way he'd loved Madeleine, he felt he and I would be--wait for it--content.

  The bastard. If I could've ripped the spike out of my throat and shoved it into his, I would have.

  Content, my ass. I rocked his world. Didn't I? We had sex against the wall, thank you very much! Of course I rocked it! The ingrate!

  And yet, reading his words made my whole body ache, because I could hear Nathan's voice, even if he wasn't talking to me.

  The gentleness, the kindness.

  The love.

  Because he did still love her.

  There was anger, too. That was one emotion I'd never heard from my husband. We'd bickered here and there, and he'd been irritable and sulky once or twice (it was once), but he'd never been mad at me.

  Suddenly, that seemed like a big problem.

  So he was settling for me. She was the love of his life--passion, anger, fire, love--and I was contentment.

  Yay, me.

  Their emails started back when Nathan and I were getting serious. When I was starting to let myself think that maybe I had actually found the one, Nathan was debating with his ex-wife.

  Him: I can't do that to her just because you're afraid of being alone.

  Her: You know how I feel. You've always known.

  Him: It's not the same as it was with you.

  What did that mean, huh? Was that a compliment or an insult?

  The emails were mostly from before we got married, when Madeleine clearly thought she had a chance to change his mind. However, on January 6, five days after our wedding, she'd sent him this: I can't believe you went through with it. Oh, Nathan, what have you done?

  He didn't answer that one.

  Another one, telling him about a dream she'd had where they were together and had a baby, and they were so happy, and it was so right. Gack.

  On Valentine's Day, which was apparently their anniversary, she'd sent another one:

  My whole soul is shredded by thoughts of you. Our tenth anniversary--ten years today! How can my life be going on without you? I ruined everything. I'm sobbing right now, alone and broken, and I know I shouldn't be writing to you, but I'm so very, truly sorry for everything, Nathan. I miss you more than I can say, I love you so much, and I know I have no right to tell you that, but it's true.

  She sounded drunk to me. Speaking of, my wine was gone.

  Nathan had brought me a beautiful bouquet of orchids for Valentine's Day, a glorious riot of white veined with red. I made him dinner, rare for me, and went all out--oysters, Cornish game hen stuffed with cranberries and corn bread, early asparagus and scalloped potatoes. For dessert, I'd made tiny red velvet cakes in the shape of hearts; I'd bought the cake pans at Williams-Sonoma a month before. I gave him a framed photo of the two of us, that selfie I'd taken in September, me standing behind him, kissing his cheek, him smiling right into the camera.

  He'd been preoccupied. A sticky issue with a zoning ordinance, he said.

  Ordinance, my ass. He sure as hell didn't mention that today would've been his anniversary to his first wife.

  He did answer that tragic Heathcliff Loves Cathy Valentine's email. Not the way I wished he had, oh, no. What I wanted to read was Kate completes me. She baked me tiny red velvet cakes, and they were fantastic! By the way, I can't even remember your face. I wanted him to threaten a restraining order.

  But the truth was now in front of me, because he answered:

  I miss you, too. But Kate is my wife now.

  Daniel had been right. I shouldn't have read these.

  On December 12 of last year, it had been snowing heavily, and Nathan and I had gone for a walk. Most of Cambry-on-Hudson was closed in the way that the 'burbs shut down in the snow, no one trusting their Range Rovers and Mercedes SUVs to actually handle five inches of the white stuff.

  It had been almost completely quiet, the only sound the slight hiss of snow falling and the squeak of our boots. We walked and walked, our cheeks pink, hands cold, but it was so magical, the tree branches bending with the heavy weight of white. We walked through the nature preserve that his great-grandfather donated to the town until we stood at the top of a ridge that overlooked the Hudson River, our breaths fogging the air, laughing as we slipped a little, holding hands, steadying each other.

  Then Nathan dropped to one knee. "Will you marry me, Kate?" he asked, and I remembered how sweetly shy he looked, those blond eyelashes, his eyes so blue, the snow falling on his hair.

  Of course I said yes.

  Now, staring at my fish in his fancy bowl, the roots of the plant waving gently in the water, I had another answer.

  "On second thought, no," I said, my voice too loud. Hector seemed to flinch.

  Because if I'd known Nathan still missed his ex-wife--if I'd known that he'd categorize our relationship as contentment--I wouldn't be his widow now.

  *

  On Saturday, I went to see my in-laws.

  "Kate, deah," Eloise said. "Do come in. Shall I get you some coffee? Perhaps some iced tea? Please, come sit on the patio."

  Their house was a brick Georgian, gracious and old. Nathan had grown up here, played hide-and-seek with his sister. Once, he fell asleep in the cupboard under the window seat, legend had it, and it had taken hours to find him.

  Probably, he and Madeleine had made out here a few times. Possibly more. Nathan and I had never done more than hold hands in the presence of his parents.

  "Hello, Kate," Mr. Coburn said, rising to kiss my cheek.

  "Hello," I said, never able to call him by his first name. "It's good to see you."

  He seemed sober, but my God, how he'd aged in these past two months! The skin on his face was loose, and his eyes seemed to have faded in color.

  We sat awkwardly on their slate patio, where Nathan had envisioned the new bedroom/bathroom/sunroom addition. I accepted some iced tea, though I hated it. The lemon always made my teeth feel stripped like old wood.

  "How are Miles and Atticus?" I asked.

  "They're very well," Eloise answered. "Miles will start at camp next week, and Atticus is enrolled in an art class. He's quite a gifted painter, Brooke says."

  My heart hurt. As ever, I wondered how Eloise could do it--make pleasant small talk, allow that gleam of pride in her eyes as she smiled over her grandsons. Mr. Coburn stared into the middle distance.

  "I was in the park the other day," I began. "Bixby Park?"

  "A lovely time of year to visit," Eloise said.

  "Yes. I, um...I saw the bench."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Which bench is that?" she asked.

  "The bench for Nathan."

  They glanced at each other, and I immediately knew they didn't have any clue what I was talking about.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "There's a bench dedicated to Nathan. I thought it was from you."

  "Did Brooke do it?" Mr. Coburn asked.

  "No, I don't think so," Eloise murmured. She looked at me, her brow furrowed with concern.

  I looked into my iced tea. "Maybe Madeleine, then."

  She put down her teacup.
"I'm sure her heart is in the right place. But I'm so sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I'll call her."

  "No, that's fine," I said. "Listen, I know it's... I brought my camera for your portrait. We never got around to it, and I thought something more spontaneous might be better."

  "Our portrait?" Mr. Coburn asked.

  "For our anniversary," Eloise said. "The party."

  "We're still having that?"

  "I told you, deah. Remember? Because of the scholarship fund?"

  "Right, right."

  "I'll make it as painless as possible," I said, faking a smile.

  And so I told them where to sit, adjusted Mr. Coburn's collar under his crewneck sweater and saw something I'd never seen so clearly--Nathan's parents loved each other. They'd never recover from their son's death, but they had each other. They'd love, honor and cherish each other for the rest of their lives, and the magnitude of their loss had brought them closer together.

  "You're a beautiful couple," I said, and my voice was husky.

  "We've been blessed," Mrs. Coburn said, her voice trembling a little. "We've been very blessed."

  Mr. Coburn covered her hand with his and smiled at her, his eyes full of tears. She smiled back and touched his cheek.

  Sometimes, a smile was the bravest act of all.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ainsley

  On Sunday, I left the fairy presents in the little houses Jonathan's daughters and I had made--two flower beads, and two tiny glass figurines of a snail and a cricket. I spent far too much time agonizing over what the fairies should leave, but I loved picturing the girls finding the gifts.

  And imagining their dad smiling when they showed him.

  I was visiting my grandmother that day, and it just so happened that Gram-Gram's apartment had a nice view of the side lawn, and yes, I found myself lingering there, glancing out the window.

  Gram-Gram was trying to remember her computer password. Ollie sat on her lap, helping by putting his little paws on the keyboard occasionally. Chances were strong he'd figure it out before she did.

  "Do you want a sandwich, honey? I made a ham this week."

  "I love ham!" I said, always happy to eat.

  "Sniff it first, in case it's just about to go bad."

  "Roger that." I went into the kitchen and sniffed; there was probably enough salt in that sucker to kill any salmonella or E. coli anyway. "Smells good enough to me!" I took a knife and started hacking away.

  "Thanks, sweetheart. Your mother is so fussy about these things." She gave me a squeeze. "Don't use that knife, honey, it's sharp. I'll do it for you."

  Dear Gram-Gram. She did love having someone to fuss over. Candy treated her like she had a foot in the grave, raising her voice so Gram-Gram could hear her, even though hearing loss wasn't one of her problems.

  "How is your mother?" Gram-Gram asked, reading my mind.

  "Oh, fine," I said. I went to the computer and started entering random passwords. LettieCarson. lettiecarson. lettiecarson1. Gram-Gram.

  A few days ago, Candy had been on the local television lifestyle show, where she was a regular for parenting issues. The host asked her how many children she had and she'd said, "Two children and one stepdaughter." The truth, but still.

  I tried Gram-Gram's birthday, her anniversary to her late husband, the date of his death.

  Nothing. "Did you have a pet when you were little?" I asked.

  "I did," she said. "Blacky the cat. Oh, he was wonderful!"

  Blacky. BlackytheCat. blackythecat.

  "I'm going to throw that thing out the window!" Gram-Gram said. "I hate technology! What happened to the good old days when people could just talk to each other? Here you go!" Gram-Gram said. She handed me a sandwich, which had at least half a pound of ham on it, and beamed.

  I typed in SeanKateAinsley.

  And I was in.

  "Aw, Gram-Gram," I said. "Your password is us. You're so sweet! Here, I'll write it down, okay?"

  "What if the terrorists find it and hack me?" she asked.

  "That's a chance I'll take."

  "Well, you're a genius. Thank you so much, honey! Now eat your sandwich before it spoils."

  Mmm.

  "Do you remember my mother, Gram-Gram?" I asked, taking a bite. Oh. Okay, maybe the ham wasn't so fresh. I discreetly spit it into a napkin and fake-chewed.

  "Candy? Of course, honey! I'm her mother!"

  "I meant Michelle."

  Gram-Gram frowned. "The one who died? No, honey, I never met her. I don't think I did, anyway. I'm sorry."

  "It's okay. I just wondered. Now, let's check your dating profile." I'd finally found SunsetYearsDating.com. I set my sandwich aside and pulled up the site. "Oh, look! You have five men interested, you hussy!"

  "I do?" She clapped, delighted.

  "Here's StillGotIt25. I wonder if that's his birth year."

  "Then he's only in his nineties! Is he handsome?"

  I clicked, then flinched. "Okay, it's best not to go with a guy whose profile picture is of him in tighty-whities."

  "Not so fast," she said, putting on one of her many pairs of glasses and peering at the screen. "Oh, dear, no. That's some serious droopage. Looks like a turkey wattle in there. Next." She picked up my sandwich and took a bite.

  "Oh, Gram-Gram, that's my sandwich. And you know what? I'm pretty hungry." I'd also have to figure out how to get the ham out of there so she wouldn't get food poisoning.

  We clicked on the next picture. It showed a collage of pictures--an elderly man, nice-looking, smiling. Another of him holding a toddler. And the most recent one, lying in a hospital bed, eyes closed. Good God. His interests were listed as custard night. Yes. He looked like a soft diet kind of guy. I glanced at my gram.

  "Is that Bill Parsons?" she said, blinking at the picture. "I think it is. He died a few weeks ago. Next."

  The next profile had no photos. It just said I'm looking for someone to take care of me. Must not be squeamish about bowel rinses. Also, my daughters do not approve of this, so you would have to leave or hide when they visit.

  "Charming," I murmured.

  An announcement came over the intercom, which was in everyone's apartment. "Good afternoon, residents! A reminder that our salsa dance class starts in ten minutes."

  "Shall we go to that, Gram-Gram?" I said. "A lot of times, meeting someone in person is best."

  "Only women go to salsa dancing."

  "Maybe you should become a lesbian, then. It would solve that pesky life expectancy problem."

  "Oh, you're such a hoot!" She laughed. "Sure, let's go. This is getting us nowhere." She paused. "I'm just lonely, honey. Your grandfather's been gone so long I can't even remember what a hug from a man feels like, let alone sex. I hope you don't mind helping me."

  I wrapped my arms around her little shoulders and gave a gentle squeeze. "I love helping you," I said.

  I'd never met my grandfather--well, Candy's father--who died before I was born. Pictures always showed a smiling, bald man with Malcolm X-style glasses. I remember how jealous I used to feel, seeing the old home movies of him carrying Sean on his shoulders, holding Kate as an infant.

  Dad had been raised in an orphanage, back in the days when they had orphanages here in the United States. My mother's parents had never met me, according to Candy. They'd sent birthday cards until I was about ten. Otherwise, Gram-Gram was it.

  At least she was fantastic. I waited while she doused herself with rose-scented perfume that made my sinuses itch, combed her hair, fussed with her earrings, put on a scarf, took it off and finally was ready to go. "Shall we bring Ollie?" I asked.

  "Oh, yes! He'll help me stand out in that crowd of shriveled hags. Men love dogs."

  "Good point. Come on, Ollie, let's go." I scooped up my dog, who was looking extra cute today, and kissed him on the head.

  The Village of the Damned did a nice job of offering different things. Cooking classes, tai chi, dancing, crafts, holiday parties, outings...
It was just that not many people seemed to want to do them. Or weren't able to do them.

  As Gram-Gram predicted, there were roughly thirty women in the gym and three men. Each man had at least four dance partners vying for his attention.

  Wait. There were five men.

  Jonathan Kent stood in the doorway, his hands on the back of his father's wheelchair.

  My face grew hot, same as the time I'd hidden in the boys locker room in eleventh grade to see Juan Cabrera without his shirt. Would Jonathan think I was stalking him? Was I stalking him? I'd been at that window a long time.

  He looked over, saw me and gave a cool nod.

  Right. Captain Flatline.

  His father looked distressed, however, and I knew how to fix that. "Do you know that gentleman over there in the wheelchair?" I asked Gram-Gram. "Mr. Kent?"

  "I don't think so," she said. "He's rather handsome. Is he senile?"

  "I'm not a hundred percent sure. He's my boss's father."

  "Well, if he's nice, who cares about a little senility? Let's go say hello." She marched over to them, using her sharp little elbows to negotiate the crowd. I followed, Ollie trying to lick everyone we passed.

  "Hello, hello, hello, boys!" Gram-Gram said, neatly cutting off an incoming female, who glared at her.

  "Hi," I said to Jonathan. "Fancy meeting you here."

  "Hello." He looked tense. Normal, in other words.

  "You remember my grandmother?"

  "Of course. Mrs. Carson, lovely to see you again."

  "Oh! Don't you have the nicest manners, young man! This is your father?"

  "Yes. Malcolm Kent. I'm afraid he's not--"

  Malcolm Kent caught sight of Ollie in my arms. "Good dog," he said.

  "Would you like to hold him?" I asked. "He's very friendly."

  Gram-Gram took Ollie from me and put him gently on Mr. Kent's lap. The old man lifted a gnarled hand and petted him, then smiled at my grandmother.

  "Shall we get out there?" Gram-Gram asked. "Come on! It's fun." She hip-checked Jonathan out of the way and grabbed the wheelchair handles.

  "Is that all right, Dad?" Jonathan asked, but they were already out there, Gram-Gram's head bouncing to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean." Not what I'd consider salsa music, but hey.

  Jonathan's eyes were on his father. "He'll be okay," I said, hoping it was true.

  "He likes dogs," he said.

  "And Ollie likes people. We actually volunteer here, Ollie and me. Well. Mostly Ollie. But I tag along."

  He dragged his eyes off his father and looked at me for the first time.