“He’s calmer now.” There was a pause as he weighed what to tell me. “The stroke took away a lot.” His face was hard to read.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He inclined his head. “Thank you. I bring the girls here because...well, because he’s their grandfather. He loved them a great deal before.”

There was a lot unsaid in that sentence. A lump formed in my throat. “And your mom?” I asked.

“She died eleven years ago. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” He kept staring straight ahead. “My daughters mentioned their uncle, I take it?”

“Matt?”

“Yes.”

“They did.” I paused. “They said you hate him.”

“Yes. It’s somewhat hard to forgive your brother when he sleeps with your wife.”

My mouth fell open. Holy guacamole! So uncle wasn’t an honorary title.

“Oh,” I managed.

He kept staring ahead. “They had an affair shortly after my father’s stroke. They’re still together.”

“Jonathan, I’m so sorry.”

Another incline of the head. “Partly my fault, I’m sure.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

He did look at me then, a flicker of amusement in his strange eyes.

“Your wife and your brother?” I went on. “Nope. Definitely not your fault. That’s just shitty luck in relatives. And spouse. Low morals. Cheatin’ hearts. Slimeballs. Did they take your dog, too?”

He laughed unexpectedly. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

I leaned so my shoulder touched his just for a moment. “At least you have the makings of a good country song.”

He slid a look at me, and something turned over in my stomach. “I suppose that’s true.”

The sky had turned an intense red at the horizon, and for a moment, we didn’t say anything, just watched the girls as they busied themselves at the edge of the lawn. Two swallows dipped and whirled as they made their way home, and the Hudson shimmered silver and pink.

“Have you seen Eric lately?” Jonathan asked.

“Only on Jimmy Kimmel.”

“You seem to have taken it well.”

“Don’t be fooled. I’d stab him in the eye if it wouldn’t get me arrested.” I shifted slightly, the grass feeling a little damp against my legs. “Do you ever get over it?” I asked. “That feeling that you didn’t know the person you were sleeping with at all?”

Maybe I’d gone too far, because he didn’t answer right away. “Sorry,” I said.

“No,” he said. “You don’t. But it does stop hurting quite so much.”

“You still go to the support group.”

“I’m not sure how to extricate myself from that, actually. Also, they’re nice people. My friends.”

It struck me as odd that Jonathan had friends. I always pictured him alone. Not very fair of me. Until very recently, I’d pictured him only as a work-obsessed robot. Captain Flatline.

Who told his daughters that he’d seen a fairy, and faithfully visited his sick father.

“Daddy! Come see our fairy house! You, too, Abby!” The girls charged back at us, dirt-stained and happy.

“It’s Miss O’Leary to you, sweetheart,” he said.

“Or Ainsley,” I said.

He stood up and offered me his hand, which I took, and he pulled me up. For a second, we were almost pressed together, and I smelled him, his laundry detergent, his soap.

I took a step back. “I should go,” I said, my voice a little off. “It was so nice to meet you, girls. Check the fairy houses in a week or so and see if they left you a prize, okay?”

“We will!” Lydia announced.

“It was nice meeting you,” Emily said, a little shy.

Jonathan smiled at me, a slightly crooked smile, as if he didn’t quite know how to do it, and there it was again, that pressure, this time deep in my stomach.

“Oh, um, Jonathan, I thought we could maybe do a story on senior citizen dating,” I babbled. “My grandmother? Who came to work today? Anyway, she’s—Well, we can discuss it at work.”

“All right,” he said. “Good night, Ainsley.”

“Bye,” I said and walked off, acutely aware that my boss may or may not have been watching me go.

I hoped my ass looked good in this skirt.

“Cool it,” I muttered to myself.

But the flustered feeling stayed with me all the way home.

Chapter Twenty

Kate

On the first Friday in June, two months into the all-fun, all-the-time journey that was widowhood, I came home from shooting a wedding and decided to read Nathan’s emails to and from Madeleine.

I don’t know why then. Maybe because the bride and groom had seemed genuinely happy, their faces showing me nothing through the lens except simple joy. It made me wonder if my marriage had been as happy as I’d thought.

Maybe it was because I’d been to the widows and widowers group again. LuAnn, the orangey woman who’d lost her police officer husband, had told us about cleaning out his closet and finding a Christmas present for her, already wrapped, or possibly forgotten from last year, unsure of whether or not she should open it.

Maybe it was because the house was quiet; Ainsley was out with friends. One of these days, I’d have to call Jenny and Kim and let them know I was up for a night out. Jenny had mentioned her sister, too, newly divorced, a mother of three. All I had to do was reach out, which had always been a little hard for me.

Maybe I decided to read those emails tonight because I got an invitation from the Re-Enter Center—a fund-raiser next week, one of many they had throughout the year—and it reminded me of Daniel. The last time I’d seen him, we’d talked about those emails, and I still hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Whatever the reason, I poured myself a big-ass glass of wine, chugged half of it and went into the den (or study). Hector, who’d clearly felt ousted as number one pet since Ollie had come to live with us, was delighted to see me, wriggling vigorously in his bowl. “Hi, buddy,” I said, waving at him. “You got my back here? Yeah? Good. Let’s do this.”

I sat in Nathan’s chair and turned on Nathan’s computer. Swallowed some more of Nathan’s wine and dived right in. There was the MRT folder.

I clicked on the earliest email and started, taking care to read every sentence slowly, every reply from my dead husband.

Madeline Rose Trentham was a good writer, I’d give her that.

The nutshell version: she’d asked him to dump me and give her another chance, and she wanted his babies now, and theirs was a love too great to be denied, even if it would be hurtful to “her.” (Me, of course. Madeleine referred to me only in pronouns. Didn’t type my name once, the bitch.)

He said no.

But he didn’t say No, I love Kate more than I ever loved you. She’s the moon of my life, my sun and stars. (Yes, yes, I’d been watching Game of Thrones again.)

He didn’t say She’s everything to me and I love my life with her.

He didn’t say Piss off, Madeleine, and stay out of my life.

Instead, he said it was too late. Things with me had gone too far. He’d gotten used to life without her. He and I were a good match.

I know. It sets the heart afire, right?

He said he loved me in a different way, and if it wasn’t as tempestuous as the way he’d loved Madeleine, he felt he and I would be—wait for it—content.