“Actually, my sister found one. It meets at the Lutheran church.”

“That’s the one he goes to. He says it helps.” She smiled a little, such a nice person. I tried to answer, but the spike wouldn’t let me.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do this. I watched America’s Next Top Model last night to prepare. I’m ready to smize.” She grinned, and I found that I could speak once again.

“That show has ruined high school girls for years now.”

“I know, but I can’t help it. It’s like crack.”

“That and Project Runway,” I said. “I watched a marathon last summer.” Before I knew Nathan. Before I was a wife, before I was a widow.

“I know Tim Gunn!” she said, pulling me back from the black fog, and we chatted about New York and celebrity sightings.

I kept her talking while I shot. She had a great smile, and her nose was a little big, which saved her from being forgettably pretty and made her beautiful instead.

So her guy was a widower, and he was in the land of the living. Maybe the grief group had something going for it.

Half an hour later, I took the picture I knew would work best. “We can stop now. This is the one,” I said. I downloaded it to my computer and pulled it up in black and white.

Perfect. Jenny sitting on the floor in the middle of a mountain of white tulle, her legs crossed, black leather jacket gleaming. She was looking just a bit off camera, and her face was open and friendly with a smile that was the slightest bit mischievous. Happiness shimmered off her in waves.

“Oh, wow,” she said. “This is perfect, Kate! I love it!”

I smiled. “Great. I’ll email it to you.”

“Super. Would you make up a few prints, too? I’ll give one to my sister, and one for Leo if the big dope wants it.”

“You bet.”

She gathered her fabric up and stuffed it back in the bag. “Hey, doesn’t your mom work at Hudson Lifestyle?”

“She does a column there. My sister is their features editor. Why?”

“Oh, then you probably already know.”

“Know what?”

She put her phone in her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “The cancer guy? Now that he’s all better, he dumped his girlfriend. And blogged about it. It’s everywhere now. Do you know him?”

My skin prickled with dread. “A little,” I said.

“Sounds like a dick. Well, I have to run. See you around the neighborhood. And thanks, Kate. This was really fun.”

“Yeah. Definitely. See you soon.”

The second she was out, I opened my computer. Googled Cancer Chronicles, Eric Fisher.

0.0042 seconds later, I had my answer.

That bastard.

The little worm. When I was done with the article, I read it again. Maybe I should go to his house and beat the living crap out of him. After all, I was a new widow. I’d be forgiven.

I scrolled through the comments.

There were four thousand of them.

From what I could see, they seemed to be split fairly evenly; people saying Eric had the right to do what he wanted, the other half saying he’d done Ainsley terribly wrong. “You think?” I asked the empty studio.

At least he’d never named Ainsley in the blog. Nope, he called her Sunshine all this time.

I called her. It went right to voice mail. “Hey,” I said. “I just read the blog. I’m so sorry. I’ll see you at home, okay? Call me if you want. I’m free all afternoon.”

The rest of the day, I was consumed with thoughts of my sister, and guiltily grateful because of it. It beat wondering if I was pregnant, thinking about Nathan and trying not to think about Nathan.

Sean called me around five. “Did you see Eric’s blog?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“I never liked him.”

“Me neither.” We were quiet for a minute, bonding over our irritation with our sister’s boyfriend. Sean had written him off long ago as a bit of a tool.

Eric had his attributes. He was always very nice to me, friendly and upbeat. But he took Ainsley for granted; she was always Gayle, and he was always Oprah.

“Was he really that close with, uh, with Nathan?” Sean didn’t like talking about unpleasant subjects.

“No. They were on some charity committee together last year. Nathan’s golf thing.”

My brother grunted. “How are you doing, by the way?”

“Good, I guess. I had a shoot today. How are the kids?”

“They’re great. Maybe you can Skype us some night this week. Not tonight. Matthias has karate.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

“Tell Ainsley I’m...well, whatever. Tell her I called.”

“Will do. Thanks, Sean.”

I grabbed my knapsack and headed home on my bike. Ainsley was there when I went in. She was dressed, as always, in a cute outfit, the kind I never could pull off—an ivory skirt printed with black bicycles, a red shirt with a boatneck collar, little black ankle boots. All part of her 1950s housewife vibe.

Her eyes weren’t red. That was a good sign, I guessed.

“So,” I said.

“Yep,” she said, pouring herself a big glass of wine.

“Can I do anything?”

“Nope.”

“You gonna kill him?”

“I think his mother will take care of that.”

I smiled. Eric did have nice parents. “So...are you guys...?”

“I think he’s having a nervous breakdown.”

He’d sounded pretty calm on the blog to me. Sanctimonious, hell yes, but calm. First, he broke up with her. Now he put it out there for the universe to read about. And knowing Eric, he was loving the attention.

“You seem pretty chill,” I said, accepting the glass of wine she handed me.

“Well, I’ve had all day to read comments. That dickhead boss of mine wouldn’t take it down.”

“Too much free publicity?”

“Exactly. I can’t decide which man I hate more, Eric or Jonathan. I think it’s Eric. Yes. Definitely Eric.”

“We can burn him in effigy if you want. That Japanese maple is perfect for it.”

She snorted. “I appreciate that.” But her eyes flickered and welled. Like a normal person, she cried when the situation demanded it. Me, I was still dry. I handed her a tissue and she blew her nose, then took a swallow of wine.

“Are we going to that grief group tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, we don’t have to,” I said. “You’ve had a rough day.”

“No, let’s,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”

I waited.

“Not fun. Shit. It’ll be helpful. It’ll be helpful and cathartic. Or horrible, and if it is, we can ditch it and go bowling. Let’s order a pizza, okay? I need dairy and gluten.”

“Coming up,” I said.

At 7:00, my sister and I drove to St. Andrew’s Church, where the grief group met. We got out, a fine mist blanketing my hair almost immediately. No one told me how much it rained in Cambry-on-Hudson. Almost a completely different weather pattern than in Brooklyn.

“You really don’t have to come in, Ains,” I said. “I can walk home or get a ride.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m here for you.” She looked at me, as if really seeing me for the first time today, and gave a little smile. “No one should have to do this alone. Not the first time, anyway.”