The Next Wife

by Kaira Rouda

  They don’t know anything. I don’t care what morbid plans John and Kate made when they were married. I’m in charge now. To me, cremation is the answer. It’s good for the environment, and really, you become dust anyway. I found a good guy here. Funeral home directors are so helpful to us grieving widows, even though they pretty much have you at their mercy, don’t they? They know everything, and you’re just trying to clean up a gross mess.

  Kate needs to understand what I’ve been through. I am the wife now.

  My phone lights up. It’s Kate. Again. She’s such a bother.

  I pick up the phone. “Look, I got your messages, but you should know I’ve already lined up the funeral home here to take care of things. I’m in charge of his body.”

  “How dare you. John had plans in place for this with the funeral home here in Columbus. You should respect his wishes. I can handle it. For the love of god, it is what he wanted.” Kate’s voice is frosty through the phone.

  I hear Ashlyn sobbing. It grates on me.

  I’m tired of both of them. Kate is acting like she’s the boss of me or something. I hate that tone. Where’s the compassion for the grieving widow anyway? “John will be flown home on Saturday. It takes five days to get the official death certificate now that the autopsy is finished.”

  I hear her gasp at the word.

  So I say it again. “Yes, he had an autopsy because it was sudden, and alcohol was involved, and he’s prominent or something.”

  “You didn’t tell me that was happening,” Kate hisses.

  “You never asked,” I say. “Besides, it came back all normal. Nothing criminal. Just his poor heart stopping. So Kate, please do as I’ve asked and focus on the memorial service. I know it will be a big deal. You can be onstage, the way you like it.” I’ll admit that was a low-blow comment.

  “You’re unbelievable. You know that?” It’s Ashlyn piping in. Aren’t children supposed to be seen and not heard? “My mom and dad picked out the place where he wanted to be buried. They had a plan. Just honor that, why don’t you? Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

  Oh, silly Ashlyn. She’s so clueless. I don’t have the time to get her back on my side right now. “That plan was made when your parents were together. They are divorced, and I’m his wife now. You don’t really expect me to bury your dad next to your mom’s slot, or plot, or whatever it’s called, do you? That just doesn’t make sense. I know you’re stressed, though, so I’m not angry with you.”

  “I’m pleading with you, please. We’ll give you whatever you want, just send John home. To me. To his family,” Kate says. “At least tell me what you’re planning. I have a right to know.”

  I took a breath. We need to be a grieving team once I’m back in Columbus. A unified front, they call it. Just the three of us: John’s women. I dig down deep for my last bit of sympathy for Kate, wife number one.

  “I hear you. And I’m so sorry this has happened, for all of us. But you must understand that I’ll need to make the arrangements for John, the way he and I planned. We discussed this, and he had specific instructions.”

  “You’re lying.” Ashlyn again. She is on my last nerve.

  “You don’t know anything. I’m handling things.”

  The only thing I heard on the other end was sobbing, so I hung up.

  Of course Ashlyn is right. John and I hadn’t discussed our death plans—I’m the second wife. I’m vitality and youth and light. We had years to settle into that type of morbid rumination. Years of luxury travel, adventurous sex, and second-, third-, and fourth-home shopping.

  There’s a knock on the door. Room service. I pull the fluffy white robe tight and answer the door to a handsome young server. He no doubt wonders how a woman his age could afford this suite. I walk to the sitting area of the room and take a seat. He places the silver room service tray on the coffee table in front of me and hands me the bill.

  I leave him a big tip, and when I hand him the bill folder, our hands touch. He turns bright red before hurrying out the door.

  As I eat my room service oatmeal, I reflect on the newly unified front. Does Ashlyn still hate her mom? I don’t see it anymore. I mean, Kate seems so, I don’t know the word, boring? So in control. When John told me he and Kate had never had sex at the office after building a company together, I was in shock. Who doesn’t do it on the conference room table when you own the whole place?

  And then, just when we’d begun to enjoy our new life, really settle into a routine, he started drifting away from me.

  Unbelievable. Disappointing. You can understand my anger with this situation now, I’m sure. I let my guard down, that’s what I did, and Kate the rat slipped back into his life.

  I place my bowl of unfinished oatmeal on the room service tray and consider my next move. I have nothing but time as I wait for John’s body to be cremated so we can fly home.

  It’s time to make an important call. I pull up Uncle George’s contact, and he answers immediately. I knew he would. We’ve been spending a good amount of time together recently—on the phone and in person. We go way back. It is too bad Uncle George wasn’t interested in helping me when I was a kid and being abused by my mom and her lovers. I suppose some of his overt interest in my affairs now is due to that negligence. Or maybe he just smells money? I guess that’s what all lawyers are good at: following the money.

  “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, honey?” George’s slow drawl pulls out the last word like taffy. I imagine he’s in sweatpants and a size XXL sweatshirt with the Cincinnati Bengals logo printed on it, even though they never win, and nobody cares. He told me he doesn’t get dressed up for any client but me.

  I sniff. Tears pop into my eyes. I did love John. I do still. “It’s John. He’s died.” And then the waterworks won’t stop. I think of John’s body on some slablike table, somewhere in town, waiting to be burned.

  “I know. Saw it in the news. No need for tears. It’s all buttoned up, honey. We took care of it all when I was in town, remember? I know you liked him a lot, but now, you can move on. You’ll have all that money, everything you need. All the t’s are crossed, all the i’s are dotted, as they say.” I hear George sigh and take a sip of something. The sounds of clinking ice cubes and a slow slurp fill my ear. I put the phone down and put it on speaker.

  “You’re right. I am fine, money wise.” I blow my nose and look around the penthouse suite. I can stay in hotel rooms like this every day for the rest of my life if I’d like. There is so much I can do now with all I’ll be inheriting.

  “Even so, you should be careful. The IPO is fresh. You don’t want to upset the investors. You want them to think everything at the company can run just fine without John. Get it? It’s called a controlled company—you and John controlled fifty percent; his ex-wife the other fifty percent. Now, with what’s happened, you have sole control of his fifty percent. But you’re going to need to be sharp.”

  I stretch and touch my toes. “Yes, I know.” George has taught me a thing or two—about business and life. And he’s discreet. He didn’t even ask me what really happened to John.

  “There will be a lot of sharks in the water. Make sure you keep yourself on solid ground. You’re going to be on the cover of some big working women’s magazine, I just know it.” Mixed analogies aside, a shiver of dread runs down my spine.

  “Should I be worried about anything?”

  “No. Right now, everything is handled,” George says.

  I take a deep breath. I imagine Ashlyn and I will grow closer again. I’ll be the fabulous, young, rich co-CEO of EventCo. One of the city’s top businesswomen. As for Kate, I don’t really care what happens to her, do I? I mean sure, she’ll still own half the company and will be co-CEO for a bit, but maybe I’ll figure out a way to take that, too. She’ll be heartbroken, too sad to come into the office, perhaps. It’s all a dream come true.

  I pull myself out of my daydream and remember George is on the phone. “OK, well thanks. For everyt
hing.”

  George chuckles. “Sure thing. But remember, blood is thicker than water in times like this, sugar.”

  He said the same phrase when he came up to Columbus a week and a half ago. It’s annoying, especially if you’re a person like me without any relatives—except George, that is.

  “We’ll see. We’ll see.” I am drumming my fingers on the sleek sofa table by the door. I’m feeling a bit trapped, even in this large suite. I needed George to represent me and make sure I’m covered legally. But all my life I’ve made a point of never relying on anyone, so this role isn’t comfortable.

  “Do you need me to come help you? Where are you anyway?” George doesn’t believe in social media, so he has missed my posts featuring the beautiful meadow, our romantic lunch, the rustic beauty of this mountain town.

  “Telluride. And no, I don’t need your help. His body will be cremated as soon as I get the death certificate.” The last thing I need is George here.

  “Oh goodness. Are you sure you want to do that? There? It might not look good for you, you know?” he asks. He’s pretending his proper fundamentalist Christian cockles won’t approve of cremation.

  “Fire and brimstone, George. Ashes to ashes. You know.” I add, “I’ve got things handled here. The memorial service is next Saturday. Why don’t you come?”

  “I’ll be there. Whatever you need,” he says before we hang up.

  As the only person from my past I trust, I need to keep him on my good side. He didn’t help with what happened at home, but he told me I’d be fine once I got out of my hometown. Out of my home. And he was right. And despite his slow southern drawl and meandering walking pace, he’s a cutthroat attorney. No doubt he’ll be the only one on my side in the entire room. Sort of the way my life has always been.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  “Mrs. Nelson? It’s Curtis, over here at the funeral home. They expedited your husband’s death certificate once you called and told them who he was. I didn’t know he was a famous man. Got celebrity treatment from the coroner.”

  I sniff. “He was.” I didn’t make that call. I suppose Lance had someone handle it.

  “Everything is as it should be. We can go ahead with the cremation then, all right?” Curtis sounds at once impressed by John and sort of sad to be burning up his body.

  “Yes, please do. Thank you.” The call ends, and my heart pounds in my chest. I tell myself this is the storm before the calm, something I’d promise myself often as a kid. Right now, John’s body is being burned.

  That’s enough to keep you on edge, wouldn’t you agree?

  CHAPTER 18

  KATE

  My team rented the best ballroom in the city, complete with sparkling chandeliers and soaring ceilings. They had it decorated tastefully in John’s memory with blown-up photos of highlights of his life featured on easels throughout the room. But as I look around, I realize it doesn’t matter what the setting is for a memorial celebration of life. If you’re part of the family, it’s awful, claustrophobic, depressing. Despite the air conditioning, the large room is sticky and hot as the summer air blows in each time the doors open. I wipe my forehead with a tissue and take a deep breath.

  Ashlyn and I stand side by side at the front of the ballroom, awkwardly greeting John’s “friends.” Most are coworkers, employees, people who have depended on us for their livelihood. John’s real friends will be at the funeral: his golf buddies, his wine buddies, the couples who all followed him after the divorce because he’s much more fun to socialize with than I am.

  The people in line now are random life connections paying respects, whatever that means. I lean forward and look past Ashlyn to watch Tish. This is the first time I’ve seen her since John died, although we have struggled through many frustrating phone calls. The left side of her mouth tilts up in a smirk.

  She can smirk all she’d like, but she will soon learn the truth: she better not get in my way. I’m not sure why, but I hold eye contact with her until someone touches my arm and I jump.

  This is all quite awkward. When a perfect couple with everything going for them suddenly implodes, there are shock waves. I know the rumors as well as anyone else. I should say I know now. I wish someone had warned me, but no one did. I didn’t pick up on a clue, a telltale lipstick stain on the collar, or too many late-night meetings. Once I found out, it’s all I thought about. But even then, I was convinced it was a fling. Turns out I was very wrong.

  “How could this happen?” My best friend, Christine, had paced across the floor of my kitchen, distraught, but more to the point, bummed she didn’t discover the truth about John first. Her blonde bob shook back and forth with her stride. “I know everything that happens in this town. This is unacceptable.”

  “It is.” I took another drink of the French burgundy she’d brought with her when she rang the doorbell unexpectedly. As soon as I saw her face at the back door, I knew everyone had heard about John’s affair. “They say the wife is the last to know. They are right.”

  “Damn it. You two are perfect. Everyone says it. Look at what you’ve built. And I mean you.” Christine stopped, grabbed her wineglass. “I’m writing a story about the true brains behind EventCo. It’s time, beyond time. I’ll place it nationally. You’ll have guys lining up to get in your pants.”

  “Honestly, the last thing that attracts men is a woman who seems smarter, savvier, and more powerful than they are in business. Trust me.” I know from experience. The only way we could grow EventCo was through John’s good-old-boy network. Sure, banks are supposed to treat women-owned companies equally. Sure, private clubs and investment bankers are supposed to, too. But just like women earn on average seventy cents to every dollar a man makes, women-owned businesses have a long way to go to be equitable when it comes to financing. We decided together to have John take the CEO title. Telling that story now would just be spiteful. “I’m not sure anybody would care.”

  Christine stared at me. “You’re afraid to step into your power. That’s the problem. We need to expose him. I can write it.”

  “No, you can’t. I won’t let you. It would hurt the company. And maybe, maybe this is just some phase he has to go through? Maybe he’ll wake up?” I sipped my wine and realized my hope sounded about as realistic as snow in Columbus in July.

  “How old is she?” Christine was pacing again.

  “Twenty-two.” I touch the limestone countertop, willing myself not to cry. The fact that John moved out two nights earlier still seemed crazy. Really, John?

  “Unbelievable. What a shit head. And you didn’t see any signs? Completely blindsided, even though you all work together every day.”

  “I was busy, you know, running a company.” I sounded lame. But that much was true. I didn’t have time for an affair. But John did.

  I turn my focus back to the line of mourners and take a deep breath. John left me more than three years ago now. I still cannot fully believe he actually married her. I thought it was a fling. That it would end. I never imagined another Mrs. Nelson.

  But still, I held my head high. I survived, bided my time until he realized his mistake. Because I knew he would. How could he not?

  I watch Tish hugging a mourner, a large man with an old fedora on his head, and wonder who it is. He does not speak with me before hustling away.

  As I watch the stranger recede, my thoughts crystalize. John was leaving her. He told me as much over lunch. But did she know they were over? Maybe she did? The realization zips through me.

  I look at her again. Tish’s bracelet is too much for this place—the diamonds sparkle in defiance of the sadness in the room. She’s a walking billboard for the phrase money can’t buy taste. I cannot wait until she is out of our lives forever. I remind myself we just need to make it through this ceremony, and the funeral tomorrow. And then she’s a bad memory.

  “Mom,” Ashlyn says. “What are you doing?”

  She caught me staring at Tish. “Nothing, darling. How are you hold
ing up?”

  Ashlyn shrugs. Focus on the present, on the mourner in front of you, I tell myself while my brain searches through scenes when John, Tish, and I were together at the office. Before I knew the truth of their affair. Did I miss something? A lingering touch, a secret smile? No, there was nothing. They were sneaky.

  She was the mastermind, I’m sure of it. The woman always is.

  Ashlyn tugs on my sleeve. “Mom, you’re holding up the line.”

  I look at the next person in line. “Hello, Bill,” I say to the man who manages our country club.

  “I’m so sorry, Kate,” he says.

  “I’m sure you are, Bill,” I reply. I do not care for the man. He’s a sexist and an opportunist. A horrible combination.

  Bill turns to Ashlyn and grabs her hand with a big shake. I fight the urge to push him away from her. She lets people in too easily. The wrong people.

  “Hi, Mr. Oyster,” Ashlyn says, but she isn’t smiling. Maybe she knows what he is, too? Good girl.

  Tish stares at me. She has nothing to do but wait until Ashlyn escapes Bill’s grip. I can’t believe just over one short week ago we were all in our conference room together—Tish viewing me with disdain as if I were some old has-been relic, and her looking smug and in charge with her all-black outfit that matched John’s. The memories of that day trigger a rush of strong emotions despite another mourner touching my shoulder.

  I’ll never forget how out of place, how uncomfortable she tried to make me feel in my own office, standing there preening in the conference room with John by her side. As if she had anything to do with the company’s success, as if she belonged there in the spotlight at all. Absurd.

  “Kate, darling, I’m so sorry for your loss. Standing up here like this must be horrible. How are you holding up?” Christine, my closest friend, whispers in my ear. She looks chic as always, and as always, she’s concerned about me. She thinks I’m a workaholic, and I think she’s right.