The First Wives Club Read Free Page A

there was a pound of French-roast Brazilian coffee, and she was going to have a cup. After all, she was alone now and no one would see her fall from grace. One of the few comforts of the deserted wife.
    All at once a wave of loneliness hit her so hard that she had to clutch the side of the refrigerator until her knuckles whitened. She thought of the day she had stood in the same spot, watching, as Aaron walked through the kitchen with his clothes packed, ready to leave them at the service door. “I’ll just bring these two with me and have the porter hold the rest downstairs,” he had said.
    Annie had nodded silently.
    “I’m going to stay at the Carlyle for a while. And you can reach me at the office during the day.”
    She had nodded again, mute, stupid with sorrow and confusion.
    “Let’s just try to give each other some space, okay?”
    “Space is the last thing I need,” Annie had said. She knew the moment she said it how forlorn it sounded.
    He looked at her kindly. At heart, Aaron was kind. “Don’t look so tragic, Annie. This too shall pass,” he said. Then he was gone.
    He had said it was a temporary separation, but he had lied. Aaron —her college sweetheart, her love, the good father to her sons, the man she believed in above all others—he had walked.out. She clutched the refrigerator handle, dizzy from the memory.
    She stood alone in her shining, immaculate, empty kitchen until the feeling passed. Annie thought again of Dr. Rosen, her therapist for over three years, who had so abruptly terminated her. Perhaps she should call her, just for help to get through this latest episode. But Dr. Rosen had hurt her, had called her a “dependent personality” and “a martyr,” and though a part of Annie agreed with the diagnosis, she wanted to prove Dr. Rosen wrong.
    Annie knelt and stroked Pangor. “Are you hungry, baby?” she said, opening a can of Ocean Feast, his favorite cat food, grateful for the activity, grateful for the cat’s affection, even if it was tied to his stomach. Maybe, if she took pains with her makeup, if she got to the funeral early, maybe she’d see Aaron. The divorce was so recent.
    Despite this separation, the fight over Sylvie, maybe he was as unhappy without her as she was without him. Though he hadn’t seemed unhappy two nights ago when he called about the graduation plans. But this news would rock him. Perhaps now they’d talk. He’d look at her and remember that once, once, it had been so very good. Maybe the funeral would bring back some of the past, the past worth saving, worth cherishing.
    Maybe.
    Annie was the kind of woman who believed in taking actions, and to some extent it worked for her. She was healthy and attractive and had managed to marry well, bear and raise three children, nurture strong friendships, do a great deal of charity work, survive a separation, create this perfect home and a life of some elegance and comfort in the costliest and perhaps most beautiful square in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. She could still turn men’s heads, though she knew she was subtle rather than stunning. But she was alone, and her husband had abandoned her. The trouble was that, like Cynthia, Annie was only the first wife.
    Campbell’s Soup.
    Probably half of the wealthy WASPs in the so-called silk stocking district of Manhattan and virtually all of its celebrities are buried out of Campbell’s Funeral Home. It is also a second home to paparazzi, who snap pictures of the bereaved family and friends (when it is a noteworthy death) and are then served coffee and doughnuts (charged to the funeral) at the side entrance.
    Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Here we go again, Larry Cochran thought, loading his camera. The people who buy the tabloids eat up those haggard faces in the photos.
    Today’s, however, was not a noteworthy death. When Larry Cochran showed up, it was simply because he had nothing better to do and also because he could use the free breakfast. He quickly