The Replacement Wife Read Free

sounded on the verge of tears. “The thing is, I really like him. I think he might be the One.”
    “How do you know he doesn’t feel the same way?”
    “He hasn’t called!”
    Camille glanced at her watch. It had been less than twenty-four hours, too soon to panic. “I’ll see what I can find out.” She spoke in low, soothing tones. “In the meantime, try not to worry. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explan—” She was interrupted by a call-waiting beep at the other end.
    “Omigod. That’s him!” Lauren exclaimed breathlessly. She sounded more like a girl in junior high than a grown woman who was currently curating a major Rothko exhibition. “Gotta go.”
    Click.
    Camille was smiling as she hung up.
    Minutes later, she was in the ladies’ room freshening up for her next appointment, with a writer who was interviewing her for an article for More magazine. She applied a fresh coat of gloss over her lipstick, then paused in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection as if at an old acquaintance whom she’d randomly bumped into. These days, it was always a bit of a shock whenever she saw herself in the mirror. In place of her bald head was thick hair that fell in loose, coppery curls to her shoulders. Skin once stretched over too-prominent bones now showed a fine tracing of lines around the eyes and mouth. No one would recognize her as one of the gaunt-faced, pink-ribbon-wearing ladies from her survivors’ group. Her blue eyes had regained their sparkle, as had her ring finger, where the gold band Edward had placed on it nearly twenty years ago, more recently relegated to her jewelry drawer after it kept slipping off, had resumed its rightful place.
    Thank God for Edward . The wives in her group had fallen into two categories: those who’d been emotionally, and in some cases literally, abandoned by their spouses, and those like her whose husbands had been a rock throughout. Although the marriage had had its bumpy spots before she became ill, she had never felt so grateful for Edward as when she’d been bald as an egg, showing more bones than flesh. Nestled in his arms, she was a featherless baby bird that might otherwise be trampled. “You’re strong,” he’d whispered in her ear. “You’ll get through this.”
    And so she had. Though even with her cancer in remission and her strength regained, she still felt fragile in some respects. There were nights she lay in bed unable to sleep, the old fear stirring like some restless ghost; waking hours when she felt its cold breath on the back of her neck. She didn’t tell her husband about those fears. Hadn’t she put him through enough already?
    She returned to find Dara perusing the menu faxed over by the caterer, for next month’s meet-and-greet. The agency hosted one the first Friday of every month, open to all those on their mailing list, which typically meant anywhere from seventy-five to a hundred guests. The buffet supper was an added expense but worth every penny. In Camille’s line of work, presentation was everything. Good food and decent wine, low lighting and music conducive to romance kept it from being just another crackers-and-cheese event. Guests were inspired to dress up rather than wear what they’d worn to work that day. Everyone looked their best and shone their brightest.
    “Your two o’clock called to confirm,” Dara reported without glancing up. Camille consulted her watch. Just enough time to get to the Mandarin Oriental, three blocks away, where she was to meet the writer who was interviewing her. “Oh, and don’t forget your three-thirty doctor’s appointment.” Dara had a mind like a motherboard when it came to keeping track of appointments.
    Camille gave a short, mirthless laugh. “As if.” Today was the day she was to learn the results of her most recent PET scan, a moment of truth that loomed over her each time like the sword of Damocles. She put on her Burberry raincoat and grabbed her umbrella; it had