The Widow Waltz Read Free Page A

be?”
    “I’m guessing an hour.” I fish a twenty out of my alligator handbag. “Please get yourself some lunch and I’ll call when we’re ready.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” he says, accepting the bill, then gets out, comes around, and gives me his arm as I climb out of the black Lincoln.
    Six heels clack up the steps and shoot straight through the marble lobby. A man in his thirties rubbernecks in our direction, though surely I am invisible next to my daughters. Once, I had a phalanx of admirers. Then along came Ben. When we met, I was less polished and far prettier. As I walked the sidewalks of Providence, I, too, turned heads, and even when I was with friends, I knew and they knew the stares were for me. My hair, with its shaggy bangs and layers, fell obediently into place to reflect the sun. My teacup breasts were round and high, which was enough, this being decades before implants inflated bosoms and expectations. My hips were slender, as were my legs; my skin, the creamy sort that you have no idea will crinkle with faint crow’s-feet before twenty-nine, and beyond forty, betray you with a crush of wrinkles.
    Time is history’s bulldozer. I am no longer a glorious bloom in the ecosystem. I can almost hear people saying behind my back,
You should have seen her in college—Georgia Waltz . . . a knockout.
I try to evaluate my daughters as the rubbernecker must, gliding with the posture of ballerinas. “Stand up straight, shoulders back.” Every time I said it, I heard my mother’s voice. At least Nicola and Luey listened, though they’re tall enough to get away with a little slouch. When you’re like me, every quarter inch counts.
    At the end of the lobby, a concierge asks for identification. “Luey, do you have yours?” My tone is freighted with impatience. She scowls at me as she presents her driver’s license and the three of us ride an elevator to the thirty-fourth floor, which, along with the floor below, is occupied by Fleigelman, Kelly, Rodriguez and Roth.
    I expect to have to wait—we are early—but when I check with the receptionist, I’m told that Mr. Fleigelman is ready. She escorts us to a corner office with windows facing north and west. As we cross its threshold, Wally marches toward me on slightly bowed legs. He is wearing a somber dark suit and a white shirt. As I notice his stubby arms, I see a penguin.
    “Georgia,” he says, pulling me toward his barrel chest. Wally Fleigelman must shower in eau de toilette. I fight the reflex to squinch my nose. He can’t see the gesture, but Nicola and Luey can; I respect Wally and want them to as well. “You brought your daughters?” He seems surprised.
    “Of course,” I say, as I allow him to lead me to a black leather couch under the window. Nicola sits by my side, Luey on an Eames chair facing the taller wooden armchair where Wally takes a seat. “We have no secrets.” How can I make such a disingenuous remark? By not letting my glance drift toward the girls. “This is Nicola,” I say, and the two shake hands. “And Louisa.” She only nods and Wally doesn’t press it.
    “Pleased to meet you, ladies. Coffee?” he asks. “Fiji water? Scone? Berries? Help yourself.” He gestures toward a platter on the coffee table as well as a bar against the wall.
    Luey slathers what looks like cherry preserves on half of a scone as I say, “No thanks.”
    Let the fun commence.
    “So, Georgia, girls,” he says, puncturing the anticipation. “We’ll talk
tachlis.
”
    My daughters look baffled.
    “Getting down to brass tacks,” Wally, the portable Yiddish dictionary, explains. “And let me say, this is hard.”
    Shame on me. I am forgetting that my loss extends to Wally, who also adored Ben. In his way, Wally, too, must be grieving. This time it is I who lean forward and put a hand on an arm, which feels far meatier than the sinewy male limb I am used to touching. Tufts of dark hair creep out from Wally’s pristine, monogrammed cuff.
    He