Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another folder.

MRT.

The tears paused. No, no, keep coming, I told them, but even then, my hand was on the mouse, clicking the folder after only a second’s pause.

All these emails were from Madeleine Rose Trentham, the former Mrs. Nathan Coburn III.

There were quite a few of them. Twenty, twenty-five. All read, some with the little purple arrow indicating a reply.

The first one was dated September 28, four or five weeks after we’d started dating.

The last one was dated April 5.

The day before he died, ninety-five days after we got married, he’d been talking to his ex-wife.

Chapter Seventeen

Ainsley

On Friday at 5:01, Jonathan and I got into his stupid Jaguar and headed into the city.

“Are you prepared for this?” Jonathan asked.

“No!” I snapped. “I told you this is a terrible idea.”

He sighed and put on his signal to turn onto Route 9. “Ainsley, I realize this is painful for you on a personal level. But professionally, you have to acknowledge that you were the one who forced the issue with The Cancer Chronicles. The fact that Eric finally managed to write something interesting, while shocking, was the original point of the column. Eric’s notoriety will increase readership. Controversy sells.”

“I know, Jonathan,” I snapped. “But this isn’t exactly Time magazine featuring a mother nursing her fourth-grader! This is Eric being a dick. How does that fit into a lifestyle magazine? Our last cover was about the lost art of blacksmithing!”

“I remember,” he said drily. “You did a nice job with that, by the way.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“It was.”

I stared straight ahead. “Well, it doesn’t make up for this.”

“While we’re discussing work, perhaps we could schedule your employee review.”

“I think I’m suffering enough, Jonathan, don’t you?”

“You can’t avoid it forever.”

“Can’t I? I’m going to try.”

“Now that you’re here, and I’m here—”

“Jonathan. Please. Not now. I’m doing this pitch for you, okay? We’ll do the review next week.” Or not, if I could help it.

“You were late again this morning. That makes seventeen days in a row.”

Jesus. “I’m sure you have more statistics back in a file in your office, just waiting to humiliate me. Let’s wait so we can milk it for all it’s worth, shall we?”

He sighed.

“You can always fire me, you know,” I suggested.

“I was thinking that if you landed Eric as a columnist, I’d have to give you a raise.”

I hadn’t had a raise since I’d started.

And now that I was trying to support myself, a raise would be really helpful.

Jonathan glanced at me.

Funny. His eyes, which I could’ve sworn were blue this morning, looked very green now. And I wanted to see that little flake of gold again. I’d Googled the term he used—heterochromia. Very cool, making my own run-of-the-mill brown eyes feel very dull by comparison.

I adjusted my skirt. Oh, I’d gotten dressed very carefully this morning, let me tell you. I wanted to look chic, sophisticated, calm and so frickin’ beautiful Eric would feel like his legs were shot out from underneath him. I’d squeezed myself into some horrible thigh-to-neck undergarment to make me look smooth and curvy, if not exactly svelte, and chosen a sleeveless black turtleneck dress, wide red leather belt, oversize mustard bag and leopard-print shoes with red soles (fake Christian Louboutins, very affordable). It had taken twenty minutes of blow-drying, ten minutes with the hair iron and three hair care products to get my cute little elfin cut to look completely natural and unself-conscious. Of course I’d been late for work.

“Having Eric with us would be very good publicity for the magazine,” Jonathan said.

“I know.” It irritated me that he had such a beautiful speaking voice.

“I think the pitch would be more effective coming from you.”

“I know.”

“And I appreciate you doing it. Thank you for not quitting.” He slowed down for the Henry Hudson Bridge tollbooth.

So Jonathan was being nice, which made me even more off balance.

The thing was, I hadn’t seen Eric since he dumped me.

I missed him so, so much. I missed feeling special. I missed his laugh, his beautiful thick hair, the way he got down on the floor and played with Ollie, barking at him till our dog ran in circles of joy so fast he was just a little brindled blur. I missed sex. I missed feeling like I was home.

“So where are we meeting?” I asked.

“The Blue Bar at the Algonquin.”

Of course. If you were an aspiring writer, as Eric now seemed to be, you’d pick the most pretentious (and expensive) bar in New York City.

I let out a huffy breath.

By the time we’d inched through Times Square traffic, I was seething inside. I loved Eric. I hated Eric. This was not going to go well.

We parked in one of those underground garages that charges a kidney and both retinas for two hours, and walked up to the Algonquin. I might have to break it to Eric that Ernest Hemingway was dead, and they weren’t about to be best friends.

Jonathan held the door for me, and I took a deep breath, sucked in my stomach (why couldn’t I be more like Kate and lose weight in times of stress?) and went in.

There he was, already at the bar, martini glass in hand.

Everything inside me squeezed. Love, betrayal, anger, loneliness, everything, wadded into a tight ball of emotion.

“Hi,” I said, and to my irritation, my voice was husky.

“Ainsley.” He got up and kissed me on both cheeks. He smelled different, but the same. A new cologne, but still my Eric.

I had to press my lips together to avoid crying.

“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling. I didn’t answer. Round one went to Eric—I was more shaken by seeing him than he was at seeing me. “Jonathan. Good to see you. How are subscriptions?”

“Very healthy, thank you. We’ve seen a bump since your column.”

Eric smirked. How gratifying for him that Jonathan, who’d clearly thought his blog was idiotic, was now wining and dining him.

“Shall we get a table?” Jonathan suggested, and we did, the blue light making us all look like aliens. The waiter came right over.

“What would you like to drink, Ains?” Eric asked. “I’m having The Hemingway, and it’s delicious.”

I glanced at the menu. Name aside, it was a girlie drink with fruit juice and a sugar rim. To be true to Hemingway, it should’ve been a shot of whiskey mixed with bull semen. “I’ll have a Ketel One martini, extremely dry, two olives, please,” I said. I could drink a real martini, thank you very much.

“Bowmore single malt,” Jonathan said.

“On the rocks?”

“Good God, no.” So round two went to Jonathan.

“I’ll have another Hemingway, Jake,” Eric said. Ah. He was friends with the server. How cute.

My chest hurt.

Eric wore a dress shirt unbuttoned a few, a gray suit jacket and jeans. His hair had grown in the weeks since I’d seen him, and he’d gelled it to stick up in front.

He looked hot, in other words.

“Ollie says hello,” I said.

His eyes flickered. “How’s he doing?”