The bastard. If I could’ve ripped the spike out of my throat and shoved it into his, I would have.

Content, my ass. I rocked his world. Didn’t I? We had sex against the wall, thank you very much! Of course I rocked it! The ingrate!

And yet, reading his words made my whole body ache, because I could hear Nathan’s voice, even if he wasn’t talking to me.

The gentleness, the kindness.

The love.

Because he did still love her.

There was anger, too. That was one emotion I’d never heard from my husband. We’d bickered here and there, and he’d been irritable and sulky once or twice (it was once), but he’d never been mad at me.

Suddenly, that seemed like a big problem.

So he was settling for me. She was the love of his life—passion, anger, fire, love—and I was contentment.

Yay, me.

Their emails started back when Nathan and I were getting serious. When I was starting to let myself think that maybe I had actually found the one, Nathan was debating with his ex-wife.

Him: I can’t do that to her just because you’re afraid of being alone.

Her: You know how I feel. You’ve always known.

Him: It’s not the same as it was with you.

What did that mean, huh? Was that a compliment or an insult?

The emails were mostly from before we got married, when Madeleine clearly thought she had a chance to change his mind. However, on January 6, five days after our wedding, she’d sent him this: I can’t believe you went through with it. Oh, Nathan, what have you done?

He didn’t answer that one.

Another one, telling him about a dream she’d had where they were together and had a baby, and they were so happy, and it was so right. Gack.

On Valentine’s Day, which was apparently their anniversary, she’d sent another one:

My whole soul is shredded by thoughts of you. Our tenth anniversary—ten years today! How can my life be going on without you? I ruined everything. I’m sobbing right now, alone and broken, and I know I shouldn’t be writing to you, but I’m so very, truly sorry for everything, Nathan. I miss you more than I can say, I love you so much, and I know I have no right to tell you that, but it’s true.

She sounded drunk to me. Speaking of, my wine was gone.

Nathan had brought me a beautiful bouquet of orchids for Valentine’s Day, a glorious riot of white veined with red. I made him dinner, rare for me, and went all out—oysters, Cornish game hen stuffed with cranberries and corn bread, early asparagus and scalloped potatoes. For dessert, I’d made tiny red velvet cakes in the shape of hearts; I’d bought the cake pans at Williams-Sonoma a month before. I gave him a framed photo of the two of us, that selfie I’d taken in September, me standing behind him, kissing his cheek, him smiling right into the camera.

He’d been preoccupied. A sticky issue with a zoning ordinance, he said.

Ordinance, my ass. He sure as hell didn’t mention that today would’ve been his anniversary to his first wife.

He did answer that tragic Heathcliff Loves Cathy Valentine’s email. Not the way I wished he had, oh, no. What I wanted to read was Kate completes me. She baked me tiny red velvet cakes, and they were fantastic! By the way, I can’t even remember your face. I wanted him to threaten a restraining order.

But the truth was now in front of me, because he answered:

I miss you, too. But Kate is my wife now.

Daniel had been right. I shouldn’t have read these.

On December 12 of last year, it had been snowing heavily, and Nathan and I had gone for a walk. Most of Cambry-on-Hudson was closed in the way that the ’burbs shut down in the snow, no one trusting their Range Rovers and Mercedes SUVs to actually handle five inches of the white stuff.

It had been almost completely quiet, the only sound the slight hiss of snow falling and the squeak of our boots. We walked and walked, our cheeks pink, hands cold, but it was so magical, the tree branches bending with the heavy weight of white. We walked through the nature preserve that his great-grandfather donated to the town until we stood at the top of a ridge that overlooked the Hudson River, our breaths fogging the air, laughing as we slipped a little, holding hands, steadying each other.

Then Nathan dropped to one knee. “Will you marry me, Kate?” he asked, and I remembered how sweetly shy he looked, those blond eyelashes, his eyes so blue, the snow falling on his hair.

Of course I said yes.

Now, staring at my fish in his fancy bowl, the roots of the plant waving gently in the water, I had another answer.

“On second thought, no,” I said, my voice too loud. Hector seemed to flinch.

Because if I’d known Nathan still missed his ex-wife—if I’d known that he’d categorize our relationship as contentment—I wouldn’t be his widow now.

* * *

On Saturday, I went to see my in-laws.

“Kate, deah,” Eloise said. “Do come in. Shall I get you some coffee? Perhaps some iced tea? Please, come sit on the patio.”

Their house was a brick Georgian, gracious and old. Nathan had grown up here, played hide-and-seek with his sister. Once, he fell asleep in the cupboard under the window seat, legend had it, and it had taken hours to find him.

Probably, he and Madeleine had made out here a few times. Possibly more. Nathan and I had never done more than hold hands in the presence of his parents.

“Hello, Kate,” Mr. Coburn said, rising to kiss my cheek.

“Hello,” I said, never able to call him by his first name. “It’s good to see you.”

He seemed sober, but my God, how he’d aged in these past two months! The skin on his face was loose, and his eyes seemed to have faded in color.

We sat awkwardly on their slate patio, where Nathan had envisioned the new bedroom/bathroom/sunroom addition. I accepted some iced tea, though I hated it. The lemon always made my teeth feel stripped like old wood.

“How are Miles and Atticus?” I asked.

“They’re very well,” Eloise answered. “Miles will start at camp next week, and Atticus is enrolled in an art class. He’s quite a gifted painter, Brooke says.”

My heart hurt. As ever, I wondered how Eloise could do it—make pleasant small talk, allow that gleam of pride in her eyes as she smiled over her grandsons. Mr. Coburn stared into the middle distance.

“I was in the park the other day,” I began. “Bixby Park?”

“A lovely time of year to visit,” Eloise said.

“Yes. I, um...I saw the bench.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Which bench is that?” she asked.

“The bench for Nathan.”

They glanced at each other, and I immediately knew they didn’t have any clue what I was talking about.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s a bench dedicated to Nathan. I thought it was from you.”

“Did Brooke do it?” Mr. Coburn asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Eloise murmured. She looked at me, her brow furrowed with concern.

I looked into my iced tea. “Maybe Madeleine, then.”

She put down her teacup. “I’m sure her heart is in the right place. But I’m so sorry if this makes you uncomfortable. I’ll call her.”

“No, that’s fine,” I said. “Listen, I know it’s... I brought my camera for your portrait. We never got around to it, and I thought something more spontaneous might be better.”

“Our portrait?” Mr. Coburn asked.