The After Wife Read online

  Contents

  Praise For Melanie Summers

  Also Available

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also By Melanie Summers

  Copyright © 2020 Gretz Corp.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Gretz Corp.

  First edition

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-988891-26-2

  Print ISBN: 978-1-988891-27-9

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Kristi Yanta and Nancy Sway.

  Proofread by Melissa Martin, Brooke Lindenbusch, Nevia Brudnicki, Nicole Chiem, Laura Albert, Kellie Porth-Bagne, Janice Owens, and Karen Boehle-Johnson.

  Cover by Victoria Cooper.

  Praise For Melanie Summers

  A fun, often humorous, escapist tale that will have readers blushing, laughing and rooting for its characters.

  ~ Kirkus Reviews

  A gorgeously funny, romantic and seductive modern fairy tale.

  ~ MammieBabbie Book Club

  The Royal Treatment is … perfect for someone that needs a break from this world and wants to delve into a modern-day fairy tale that will keep them laughing and rooting for the main characters throughout the story.

  ~ ChickLit Café

  I have to HIGHLY HIGHLY HIGHLY RECOMMEND The Royal Treatment to EVERYONE!

  ~ Jennifer, The Power of Three Readers

  I was totally gripped to this story. For the first time ever the Kindle came into the bath with me. This book is unputdownable. I absolutely loved it.

  ~ Philomena (Two Friends, Read Along with Us)

  Very rarely does a book make me literally hold my breath or has me feeling that actual ache in my heart for a character, but I did both.”

  ~ Three Chicks Review for Netgalley

  Also Available

  ROMANTIC COMEDIES by Melanie Summers

  The Crown Jewels Series

  The Royal Treatment

  The Royal Wedding

  The Royal Delivery

  Paradises Bay Series

  The Honeymooner

  Whisked Away

  The Suite Life

  Crazy Royal Love Series (Coming in 2020)

  Royally Crushed

  Royally Wild

  For Lori,

  A truly lovely soul, a wonderful source of support to those who are lucky enough to know her, and a great reader. You’ve loved well and lost, yet you still walk along the shore every day to look for the magic in life.

  Thank you for sharing your magic with me,

  Mel

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  For those who have read my other books, you may be expecting something funny and upbeat, so fair warning: this is NOT a romantic comedy. In fact, the happily ever after is not guaranteed this time around. Just as in life and love, you’ll have to enter at your own risk and trust that the journey’s worth taking.

  I started work on Abigail’s story way back in early 2016. After two months of furious writing, I had to set the book aside and give it a few weeks to breathe. A few weeks turned into two years, and then I came back to it and changed much of the story. Then left it again. Turns out, it took close to four years for me to figure out what it all meant and feel it was ready to share. I hope I’m right.

  Wishing you all the best in life and love,

  Melanie

  Chapter One

  If love is the answer, could you please rephrase the question?

  ~ Lily Tomlin

  Every love story ends the same way—in misery. 'They lived happily ever after' is just code for ‘they eventually realized they weren't compatible and got a divorce, they grew tired of each other but were too lazy to do anything about it, or, they truly loved each other for eighteen years until one of them died, leaving the other one gasping for air as endless swells of grief crashed over her for the next forty years.’

  Fairy tales end with the aforementioned lie for two reasons: a) it's much quicker and more poetic, or, b) no one wants anyone to think it through, in case we all come to the conclusion that loving anyone is utterly pointless (which it most certainly is). This would be a dangerous shift in the zeitgeist, because not only would it be the end of the human race, but without all those wedding registries being filled every year, it would also be the demise of Bed, Bath and Beyond.

  Those are the cold, hard facts of love.

  Here’s another fact: I’m ninety-nine percent certain I’ll never have a moment’s pleasure again. Well, maybe ninety-eight percent. I was mildly pleased when Starbucks brought back the peppermint mochaccino a few weeks back. But other than that, nothing interests me. It’s been over a year now, and I’m still asking myself how long this terrible pain will remain lodged in my chest.

  Forever? I’m pretty sure it will be forever.

  But life moves on. That’s what everyone tells you. Move on. Get out. See people. It’s the only way you’ll start to feel better. The truth is, they only want you to move on to absolve them of the guilt they feel about being happy. To them I say, go forth and enjoy your Saturday date nights. Just leave me the hell out of it, because I’m done.

  Chapter Two

  All good things must come to an end.

  ~ H.H. Riley (1857)

  Isaac and I are at the beach. We’re spending the weekend in Maine to celebrate our anniversary. It’s a chilly fall day and we’re both wearing fleece jackets and jeans. The wind whips my hair around and smacks me in the eye. Tucking the errant pieces behind my ear, I shiver and try to convince myself that it isn’t actually cold outside, but refreshingly crisp. Soon I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin as the clouds move out of its way.

  Isaac is telling me about a new student of his. She is particularly bright and is someone he refers to as a ‘sensual’ reader, devouring the likes of Dumas, Wharton, and du Maurier.

  Irritation scratches my chest. I mentally resist his account of her brilliant reflection on Kincaid’s See Now Then, threatened by the look in his eyes as he talks. I hate it when he does this. How does he not know that this scares me, considering how we met?

  I smile and nod and say things like ‘Really?’ and ‘Oh, I never would have looked at it that way,’ hoping to sound confident. Part of me marvels at the fact that I’ve managed to hide my insecurity from him for so many years. It’s an ugly side of my per
sonality I’ve never admitted to out loud.

  I convince myself that he feels safe to tell me these things because we are so secure in our relationship. Only a loyal husband who’s madly in love with his wife would talk about an especially bright young woman in this way. If he were considering leaving me for her, he wouldn’t tell me all about her. He would keep her very existence a secret until the last possible second, when he would have to admit the awful truth because she was outside our building in a convertible wearing a push-up bra that matched the French-cut panties under her mini-skirt. She’d honk the horn so they could beat the weekend traffic up to the Poconos, and it would all come spilling out at once in a tumble of apologies and reassurances that the entire thing was neither planned nor my fault.

  He takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “How’s your book coming along?”

  I inhale the sharp, salty air, then exhale the imaginary drama out of my lungs. No need to harbor such ridiculous thoughts, not while I’m walking along hand-in-hand in the sunshine with my husband of twelve years. He’s not some rogue from one of my books. He’s the gentlemanly duke who would lay his overcoat on a puddle for a lady to cross.

  A buzzing sound interrupts me as I am just about to explain I’ve had to stop writing for the last year and a half to research seventeenth-century lace patterns. Pausing, I look out to the sea to locate the source of that incessant buzzing sound. “Isaac, do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  My eyes open. I’m on the couch, not on the beach. Isaac is dead. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and whoever is at the front entrance of the building seems determined not to leave without invading our romantic walk.

  I stumble to the front door while rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.” Lauren’s voice is all business.

  “Oh, hi. Are you here as best friend Lauren or literary agent Lauren Duncan?”

  “Which one will you let up?”

  “Neither,” I say, putting on a British accent so as to sound very well-to-do. “I’m afraid I’m not taking visitors today.”

  “Then why’d you ask?”

  Good point. She’s tricky. “You know us writers, we’re a curious bunch.”

  “And you know where all that curiosity got the cat, don’t you?” Lauren asks, sounding annoyed.

  “But do I care?”

  “Jesus. Just buzz me in already. It’s freezing out here and I’ve been sent to check on you.”

  Shit. “My mother?”

  “Yes.” There’s a strain in her voice that makes my entire body feel fatigued.

  “Fine, you can come up, but only because you had to talk to Helen.” I push the button to open the front door, unleashing a sense of panic in my chest.

  Glancing around the room, I try to discern what to clean up first. The layer of grime I’ve accumulated on my body will take at least ten minutes to scrub off in the shower, so that’s out. The empty takeout cartons on the coffee table are closest, so I collect and deposit them in the garbage. I pray that the elevator is stuck on the top floor as I plug the kitchen sink and squirt in some soap, then open the hot water tap to full force, hoping the bubbles will hide the pile of dishes. Scurrying around, I gather cups and forks and plates covered with dried-on food, drop them in the sink and shut off the water. Walt Whitman, my Siamese cat, is watching me from atop the back of the couch, looking thoroughly confused. He hasn’t seen me move this fast since … well … maybe ever.

  The knock at the door makes my stomach drop. Lauren is about to become privy to my current reality, which means I’m in for a lecture and some very disapproving and pitiful looks—my least favorite kind.

  Tightening the sash on my bathrobe, I pull open the door. “Ma’am, Private Sloth ready for inspection.” I salute and clap my heels together, but they don’t make a satisfying clicking sound because I’m wearing fuzzy slippers.

  Lauren chuckles and I step aside to let her in. She’s dressed in a black suit and the timeless camel-hair coat I’ve admired on many occasions. She can pull it off because her complexion is warm brown instead of recluse white like mine. Also, she’s tall, so she doesn’t look like she’s playing dress-up in her father’s clothes when she puts on a long coat. Lucky bitch. I could also hate her for being wonderfully fit—like I used to be—but since she’s not responsible for the year-long binge I’ve been on, I’m going to give her a pass on that.

  “When did you have to suffer through a call from my mother?” I make my way to the kitchen, keeping my distance in hopes she won’t notice how long it’s been since I bathed.

  “Last night.”

  “Sorry. I’ll ask her to stop doing that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Tea?”

  “Please.” Lauren puts her briefcase on the floor and shrugs off her coat, hanging it neatly on the rack. “She’s not that bad, Abby. She’s just worried about you. And by the looks of things, her concern isn’t exactly unfounded.”

  “What?” I ask, looking around the room. “Oh, I know it’s a bit messy today, but I had a rough night last night, so I was feeling a little lazy.”

  She is standing on the other side of the island now. “Bullshit.”

  “Seriously, I’m fine.”

  She tilts her head to the side and raises one eyebrow. I know that look. She gives it to her husband, Drew, and it never fails to break him. Well, it won’t work on me because I’m not hoping to have sex with her later.

  I turn and open the cupboard where we keep the tea.

  I. Where I keep the tea.

  “Your mom is concerned that you might try to … maybe … take your own life.”

  That gets my attention. I whirl around with my mouth hanging open. “What?”

  “She’s worried that you’re deeply depressed, and if you don’t get help, you might do something drastic.”

  Instantly, my cheeks burn and my eyes prick with humiliation, but I draw on my considerable store of anger to bring my emotions in check. I force an icy smile. “Well, that is not going to happen. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Prove it.”

  “What?”

  “Prove. It.” She’s playing hardball literary agent Lauren Duncan.

  “Fine.” I huff and fold my arms across my chest. “For starters, I’m too lazy to kill myself. Do you know how much work that would be?”

  Oh, that was appalling. My gut clenches at my words, but since she’s now the one gaping, I continue, even though I wish I could stop. “I’d have to figure out what to wear, what to do with Walt, and then there’s the whole letter thing. I can’t even begin to imagine how many drafts I’d need. I’m a writer, so the last thing I write had better be spot-on perfect.” I shake my head and give a careless little shrug. “That all sounds like way too much work. Plus, I wouldn’t find out how A Handmaid’s Tale ends.” I give her a ‘see, I told you’ look.

  Lauren snorts then laughs. “Oh my God, you’re terrible.”

  “You probably shouldn’t say things like that. I’m in a very delicate state,” I say, fighting a smile.

  “Abby, stop it,” she says, covering her smile with both hands. “It’s not funny. This is very serious.”

  I sigh. “Tell her my sense of humor is intact, so you take that as a solid indicator that there’s no need to worry.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “How can I be sure you aren’t just trying to throw me off?”

  Giving myself a moment to think, I stare at the ceiling before answering. “Because I haven’t done it yet. If I were going to do it, it would have been months ago, when I couldn’t stop crying for more than a five-minute stretch. Not now, when I’m comfortably numb.”

  “See, when you say it that way, it doesn’t exactly sound reassuring.”

  My shoulders drop. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.”

  The kettle whistles and I turn to the stove. When I finish filling the pot, I take it over to the island and set it down. “Look, I’m just taking a littl
e time out from life right now. It’s all good, though, I promise. I’ll be venturing out into the world soon enough.”

  “Starting when?”

  “I don’t know. Soon.” I cross the room and take two mugs out of the cupboard. “Next Wednesday at three fifteen p.m. Eastern Standard Time.” I turn back to her with an impish grin that I hope will work.

  She doesn’t return my smile. “I’m holding you to that. You’re on notice, Abigail Carson.”

  “Okay, boss lady.” My tone suggests that she really doesn’t have control over me, even though deep down I’m a little scared of her and she knows it.

  Her face softens as her eyes pass over my fleece frog-print robe. “Not today, but when you’re ready, I need to talk to you about your contract with Titan.”

  My stomach tightens. Even though I knew this was coming, I was hoping it would be longer in getting here. “I’m pretty sure I already know what you’re going to say. When do they want the advance back?”

  She sighs and says, “This can wait.”