The After Wife Read online

  “I can tell by the look on your face that it can’t. How long do I have?”

  “Thirty days to start making installments unless you can come up with the entire forty-five thousand at once. Or maybe …” She pauses and gives me a hopeful yet terrified look. “You managed to write an entire novel without mentioning it?”

  Thirty days. My entire body goes numb and I want to sink into the couch and pull a blanket over my head. Instead, I give her a confident nod. “No problem. I can write them a check.” I think.

  “They’ve been at me for almost six months now, and I’ve held them off as long as I could,” Lauren says. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to ...” My voice is barely audible, even in my own ears.

  “Erica said that when you start writing again, she’ll look at anything you do. Of course, they want you to finish the Duchess series, but if that’s too hard right now and you want to write something else, they’ll read it. She said to tell you she’s sorry, but accounting is on her ass about it.”

  I stare out the window for a moment as I let this information sink in. “The thing is, Lauren, it’s kind of hard to write lighthearted historical romance when nothing is remotely funny anymore, and after you figure out there is no such thing as happily ever after.”

  Nodding, she says, “So maybe try something new. Just keep the historical part and write, I don’t know … horribly depressing drama.”

  I manage to curve my lips upward for a second, then let them drop. “There’s just no part of me that wants to create anything. I honestly don’t know if I’m a writer anymore.”

  “Oh, Abby, don’t say that. Maybe you’re not ready to go back to it at the moment, but you can’t give up. It’s who you are.” She rests her hand on mine. Her palm is warm and soft and the feeling of another human touching me brings an unwelcome swell of emotion.

  “Maybe you could try something else—just for a little while—until you feel inspired again. Work in a flower shop or a bookstore or something. Anything so you’ll have—” She stops herself when she sees the glare on my face.

  “A reason to get up in the morning?” I quip, pulling my hand away. “He’s gone.”

  Lauren sighs, and the look on her face says she’s as defeated as I intended her to be. Her cell phone buzzes and she glances at it. “Shit. I need a new assistant. The one thing I needed her to do was reschedule my three o’clock, but it looks like she hasn’t managed it.”

  “You were going to take the afternoon off for me?”

  Lauren nods.

  Don’t I feel like a total bag? “That’s really not necessary. I’m doing fine.”

  “This isn’t healthy, Abby,” she says, standing and picking up her briefcase. “You need to get out and be around people.”

  “I have Walt. He’s people.”

  “The other kind of people—human beings with opposable thumbs who can hold up their end of a conversation,” she says as she starts for the door. “I don’t know. Maybe you should try getting a little wild and having some fun for once.”

  “I have fun all the time.” Spying my plate from breakfast, I pick it up off the coffee table and lick Pop-Tart crumbs off it. “See? That was wildly wonderful.”

  She slides on her coat. “I’m serious, Abby. You can’t go on like this.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure I can.”

  “You’re going for a late lunch with me this Friday. I’ll be here at one-thirty to get you.”

  “I won’t go with you, but I promise I’ll be alive.”

  She laughs reluctantly. “You’re such a shit.”

  “You love that about me.”

  “I do, and you are leaving this apartment on Friday, even if I have to drag you out by your ankles.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Oh, I can do it, lady. Just make sure you shower and put some clothes on.”

  “Nah, I’d rather make you take me out like this,” I say, opening the door for her. “But I insist we go to the Russian Tea Room.”

  She walks out into the hall and turns to me, her face full of the pity I’ve grown to hate. “If you need help with paying back the advance—”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I could never allow that.” I shake my head at the notion. “I can manage it.”

  The elevator bell dings and the door slides open, allowing Mr. Puente, the co-op board director who I’ve been artfully avoiding to catch sight of me. Son of a bitch.

  “Abby, finally,” he says with a loud sigh. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”

  “Let me guess, someone wants to re-open the great welcome mat debate of 2016,” I say, giving a discreet eye roll in Lauren’s direction. She gives me an ‘oh brother’ face and winks before she hurries to catch the elevator.

  “Those mats were a tripping hazard.” He rushes toward me with his perfectly straight posture. He’s dressed in tan slacks, a starched white button-up, and a pea soup green sweater vest I’m sure he spent twenty minutes ironing this morning. “Have you been away? I’ve tried emailing, calling, and stopping by repeatedly.”

  “I’ve been very busy.”

  His eyes travel to my slipper-clad feet, and when he looks back up at my face, it’s with sympathy. “I see. Can we step inside for a minute? I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  “Perfect, because it’s bad news day at Casa de Carson.” I gesture for him to come in, then start toward the kitchen. “Tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’m wondering if you’ve read any of the letters the co-op board has sent.” When I turn back to him, he’s staring at the toppled pile of envelopes on the counter.

  “I’ve gotten behind on my paperwork lately.”

  Mr. Puente takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a second. “As you may or may not know, we’re up for another major rent increase later this year. The board has been pulling together the funds to purchase the land from Killborn. All the co-op owners either need to pay their share or sell.”

  Shock vibrates through my bones, followed by a sick, panicky feeling. I should not have been ignoring things for so long. “How much?”

  “For your unit, it would be a four-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-dollar buy-in.”

  My knees grow weak and I suddenly wish I were sitting down. “Who has that kind of money?”

  “Some have it. Some have managed to get financing. It’s a great investment if you can swing it.” He glances at my slippers, then continues. “If not, we found a realtor who offered to drop his commission for anyone who needs out.”

  “But the market is ...”

  He nods. “Yes, you’ll be lucky to get three-hundred-thousand out of it.”

  “How long do I have to figure this out?”

  “That’s the thing. You need the money by next Friday.” The way his face twists shows that he’s torn between pity and irritation. I’ve put him in this incredibly awkward position by ignoring what surely must have been the only thing my neighbors have thought of for months now. “I’m very sorry, Abby. I really did try to reach you.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s not your fault.” I shake my head, and, much to my horror, tears spring to my eyes without my permission. Oh, perfect.

  He stiffly makes his way over to the coffee table, returning with a tissue box. “Here.”

  I take two and hold them up to my face, trying to cover the evidence of having actual feelings. “Thanks.”

  “I can only imagine how hard this past year has been for you, and I know this won’t make it easier.”

  I nod and blow my nose, which is now running at record speed. Not very dignified, Abby.

  Mr. Puente digs in his pocket and hands me a business card. “This is the realtor I mentioned. He’s quite good. He’ll take care of everything for you.”

  And just like that, a ball has begun rolling down a steep hill, and there will be no catching it. No ignoring it. Only chasing.

  Chapter Three

  The only people who li
ke change are wet babies.

  ~ Mark Twain

  “Now what?” I sit on the couch with my laptop in front of me. My eyes are burning from spending the last four hours scrolling through pages of condos for sale. Despite what Ben, the opportunistic realtor, tried to tell me, I held onto a shred of hope that I could somehow find the one remaining apartment in the city I can afford. But there is nothing. Not for someone who isn't willing to share a space with a roommate or forgo the luxury of a window. And certainly not for someone without a solid job. This city demands ambition, something I’ve always loved about it, until I lost mine. I have to leave New York, my home of twenty-one years.

  The apartment sold yesterday, after fourteen days on the market. Now, I have eight weeks to find a cheap place to live. I shut my laptop and lean back, closing my eyes as desperation rockets up my spine again. I don’t want to do this, and I definitely don't want to do it alone. The mountain of work ahead of me is so high, I can't see the top from down here. I slide my thumb through Isaac's wedding band, which hangs from a gold chain around my neck. The smooth gold doesn't magically transport him here from the netherworld when I need him most, not that I held any hope it would.

  Why can't you be here now, you bastard?

  Isaac would know what to do. He’d have thought of the perfect solution by now, and instead of feeling like this is the end of the world, it would feel like an inconvenient-yet-somewhat-exciting new adventure.

  But this is not 'the fresh start I might need,' as Lauren gently put it on the phone this morning. This is my life spiraling out of control without my permission.

  I suppose that’s the thing about life, it never asks for permission. It just thunders along, taking horribly sharp, random turns, and you’re strapped in for a ride you never agreed to take.

  * * *

  Isaac appears as soon as I close my eyes. We’re on our annual school-is-out road trip, this time up through the Canadian Maritimes. He’s driving, and I’m sitting in the passenger seat. I caress the back of his neck with my fingertips, taking in the delicious warmth of his skin.

  He smiles over at me. “You happy?”

  “I am.” The tall cliffs to the left whip by at a violent pace, but inside the car, I hear the overture from Mozart’s Lucio Silla playing through the sound system. I look out at the ocean to my right and watch the waves slamming against the rocky shore below. The sun on my shoulder has a hypnotic effect and the brilliant blue sky is full of possibilities. “I think this is my favorite place on earth.”

  He chuckles. “You say that about every place we go.”

  “I know, but this time I really mean it.” I let my hand drop down to his thigh. “We should move here when you retire. It would be perfect. We can buy a nice little cottage for next to nothing. Somewhere overlooking the sea, where I could write and you could—I don’t know—take up gardening.”

  Isaac lets out a low growl. “Gardening is for old men.”

  I twist my face into a grin. “Well in twelve years, you’ll be an—”

  “Do not say it.” He laughs as he grabs my knee and squeezes it.

  Instinctively, I cover his hand with mine, lacing my fingers through his. “Don’t worry. I’ll be old by then, too.”

  “Liar,” he says, his eyes shining with laughter.

  He looks so relaxed and happy, I’m suddenly desperate to convince him. “Fishing, then. You could get a little wooden boat and go out on days when the water is calm.”

  “Fishing, hey?” Isaac tilts his head as he considers it. “I could bring a cooler of beers and stumble home with our supper.”

  The image makes me feel almost giddy. “If we could live here, I’d even gut and clean the fish while you shower.”

  Isaac lets out a loud laugh. “You really are full of shit today.”

  “Am not. I just love it here that much.”

  Looking at me from under his eyebrows, he says, “So much that you’d be willing to gut a fish? With a knife? Your delicate writer’s hands getting all bloody as you reach in and pull out—”

  Holding up one hand, I stop him. “Okay, okay. To be completely honest, I may have been too hasty with that offer,” I say, my mouth twisting to one side. “But if it’s a deal-breaker, I’m willing to let you think I’ll do it.”

  It takes Isaac half a second to sort out what I’ve actually said and his chest starts to shake with laughter. I join in, hope rising as we revel in our amusement.

  When the moment passes, he nods once. “Okay, deal. In twelve years, we’ll find a place here.”

  “Really?” I ask, tingling with delight all the way through to my bones.

  “Really.”

  Reaching up, I pull his head closer, furiously planting kisses on his cheek while the orchestra swells to a joyful crescendo. When I let him go, I turn up the music and lean my head against the seatback, utterly content and already dreaming of our new life as I gaze out at the sailboats in the distance.

  “Make sure you don’t forget, okay?”

  “What?” I ask, sitting up and turning to him.

  He turns to me with an expression so piercing, it wipes the smile off my face. Letting go of the wheel, he swivels his body to face me. “You need to remember this when you wake up.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask, glancing from him to the approaching curve in the road. My heart speeds up, outpacing the racing bows of the sinister violins. “Isaac, you’re driving!”

  He takes no notice, reaching for me instead of the wheel. I push his hands away, furious that he’s risking our lives. “Stop it. This isn’t funny.”

  “It’s fine, this is more important.”

  The curve is coming fast. Beyond it is a steep drop. I choke out a sob as my entire body freezes solid. But Isaac is stupidly calm. He leans toward me and takes my cheeks in both hands, turning my face to his. “Listen to me, Abby. This is where you belong.”

  The clanging of a garbage truck in the alley below wakes me. My heart pounds and I bolt up, panting and trying to slow my breath. When I open my eyes, the sun disappears, replaced by a dark gray winter morning. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whisper, clutching for the comfort of my duvet. This is real. That wasn’t.

  The dream fades quickly, but the unsettled feeling lingers. Reaching for Walt, I pull him onto my lap and run my hands down the length of his body. I had the answer. I know I did. But to what? After another few moments, I accept that whatever brilliant revelation I thought I had is gone forever. “I’m sure it was just nonsense anyway, right?” I say, sliding Walt back over onto Isaac’s pillow.

  He answers by opening one eye for a second, then curling himself into a tight ball.

  “Exactly. We have more important things to worry about than some stupid nightmare. In a matter of weeks, we’re going to be homeless.” My gut hardens at the thought, and I throw off my covers and get up. As I pad across the cold hardwood to the en suite, my brain still wrestles to remember where I was before I woke up, while my raw nerves fight to forget.

  I splash some warm water on my face, and as soon as my palms touch my cheeks, my mind flashes to Isaac holding my face and his earnest eyes pleading with me to understand. Suddenly, it comes to me. This is where you belong.

  Not bothering to dry my skin, I hurry back to my bed where my laptop waits on the night table. “I figured it out, Mr. Whitman. The perfect place for us to live. It’s cheap and safe and lovely, and it’ll be just like Isaac is there with us because we were going to move there anyway.”

  Walt lifts his head as though intrigued, and I give him a quick scratch behind his ears. “And best of all, nobody will bother us there.”

  Chapter Four

  Story of my life. I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

  ~ Marilyn Monroe as Sugar Kane Kowalczyk, Some Like it Hot

  Two Months Later

  “Where are you, pumpkin?” I can tell by his voice that my dad is trying to sound supportive and I love him for it.

  “Nova Scotia. I jus
t passed a little place called Antigonish.”

  “So, are you almost to Cape Breton Island then?”

  “About another hour. I should reach South Haven sometime around three.”

  “What’s it like to drive again?”

  “Like riding a bike.”

  “That’s what worries me. You never were that good at bike riding.”

  A small laugh escapes my lips. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  “Any time. But seriously, you’re okay hauling a trailer behind that little Honda?”

  “It’s not that small, it’s a CRV. Getting out of the city was sketchy, but now that I’m on the open road, I’m fine.”

  “Did you get the oil changed before you left? And check the tire pressure?”

  “Yes, Dad,” I say, sounding like an annoyed teenager. “I had it serviced when I took it out of storage.”

  “You know you have to give yourself twice the distance to come to a stop with all that weight behind it.”

  “I know. I’m going slow, giving myself lots of room.”

  “Okay, well, I’m glad to hear you’re not flipped over in a ditch somewhere.”

  “You should have been the writer.”

  “What’s that? You’re really quiet.” Despite a mountain of evidence, my dad seems utterly unaware of the fact that he’s losing his hearing.

  “I said I think Walt is having a worse time than me. He’ll definitely be glad to be out of his carrier when we get there.”

  “Walt?” He pauses. “Oh, right, the cat. Okay, I better hand the phone over to your mom. She’s been pacing around waiting to hear from you for hours.”

  “Oh, no, that’s—”

  “Hello? Abby? Is that you?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a split second when I hear her voice. “Yes, Mom.”

  “Are you on speakerphone?”

  Isaac and I would have shared a knowing glance just now. The thought instantly tortures me, and I silently gasp to make it stop. “Yes, of course.”