On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

  "Do you mind?" snapped the woman in front of us.

  "No, dear, not at all," Gram-Gram said. "Go ahead, it's your turn. Don't take too long, all right?" The mourner went up, and Gram-Gram turned to me. "Oh, goody! The widower is quite handsome, don't you think?"

  "Uh...sure."

  "By the way, someone asked me if I wanted to have sex on that little phone game of yours!"

  "Inside voice, Gram-Gram."

  "I thought it was a little soon, so I suggested we have dinner, and guess what? He never wrote to me again! Oh, it's our turn! Come on, honey!" She dragged me to the casket, barely paused and trotted over to the grieving widow. She hugged him tightly for a long, long minute.

  "She was a wonderful woman," Gram-Gram said, holding his face in her hands.

  "Thank you, uh..."

  "Lettie. Lettie Carson."

  "And how did you know my wife?"

  "Oh, gosh, we went way back. High school."

  "So you're from Ohio, too?"

  "Not exactly! So how are you, uh...Edmond?"

  "Edward."

  "Yes, yes. How are you, poor man? Can I offer you some advice, since I've been a widow for thirty-four years? Don't become a hermit. In fact, why don't you come to movie night with me this week at Overlook Farms Retirement Community? That's the official name, but I call it Village of the Damned. They're showing The Ten Commandments." She dug into her purse and handed him a piece of paper. "My name and all the details are here. I'll see you Thursday!" She hugged him again, winked at me, then released him. "And this is my beautiful granddaughter Ainsley. Also single, in case you have any grandsons under forty. Her boyfriend strung her along for eleven years! Eleven years, can you believe--"

  "And we're leaving," I said, taking my grandmother by the arm. "So sorry for your loss, Mr.... Uh. Yes."

  I steered her out of the funeral home, not missing the triumphant look she gave Anita. "Did you have fun?" I asked as we drove back to her apartment.

  "Oh, yes, honey!" she said. "Your mother would lecture me, but where else am I supposed to meet someone?"

  I was never really sure how much of Gram-Gram's dottiness was her personality or dementia. But Candy was pretty hard on her, and Kate was a little too dignified to do things like pick up men at wakes or turn a blind eye when Gram-Gram crammed her purse full of jam packets and creamers at Denny's. Me, I didn't mind.

  "Maybe we can do an event at the Village of the Damned," I suggested, turning into the giant residence. "Speed dating or something."

  "Honey, the women outnumber the men five to one. Why do you think I'm reduced to scoping out widowers while they're burying their wives?"

  "Or we can start a local senior citizen matchmaking service. I met a widower recently. George. He's very sweet."

  "Probably gay," Gram-Gram said. "But sure, honey. Give it your best shot."

  "I could do a story for the magazine. Dating After 70--The Challenges and the Fun. What do you think?"

  "I think I have to go to the bathroom, honey," Gram-Gram said, opening the car door. I slammed on the brake, since we weren't quite stopped yet. "Hurry up if you're walking me in!"

  We speed-walked to her apartment, and I managed a kiss on the back of her head before she bolted inside. "Love you!" I called, then headed back down the long hallway.

  A senior dating story would be great. We could tie in some key advertisers, too--gerontologists and hearing aid places, a yoga studio that might offer special classes for seniors. We could do a contest on the website... Win a romantic date for two, limo included, home before 9:00 p.m.

  My phone buzzed with a text. It was from Eric.

  Ains, I'm working on my cancer memoir and I can't remember the name of the chemo drug that made me so sick. Do you? Also, packing for AK! Super excited.

  I had to read it three times before answering.

  It was the yellow fin tuna that made you sick. You waltzed through chemo, Baron Munchausen.

  It took only a few seconds for him to respond.

  I understand you're still bitter and hope you find a more fulfilling path.

  I took a cleansing breath. Took another. Turned off my phone.

  As I walked through the beautiful foyer, I heard a commotion down the hall. Two little girls, one significantly taller than the other, stood outside a room. From within, a man was yelling. A nurse or aide came running down the hall, and the girls looked wretched.

  I hesitated.

  Then Jonathan came out into the hall and knelt in front of the girls. He looked back in the room, where the man was still shouting, and ran a hand through his hair, ruining the perfect combed-back sleekness and allowing a few subdued curls to spring into life.

  He was frazzled. Not something I'd seen before. Ever.

  "Hi," I said, walking toward them. "Can I do anything?"

  "This is not my house!" yelled the man inside the room. "I want to go home! Right now!"

  The smaller girl's bottom lip trembled, and the older one--whose eyes were the same hypnotic blue as her father's--had the same set to her jaw as Jonathan had when he was irritated with me.

  There was a crash from inside the room. "Please stay calm, Mr. Kent," the nurse said.

  "I will not!" the poor old guy yelled.

  "Maybe I can take the girls outside," I suggested.

  "That would be very helpful," Jonathan said. "Emily, Lydia, this is my, uh, my friend Ainsley. She works at the magazine. She'll watch you until I get Grandpa settled. I won't be long. Is that all right?"

  "I hate it here," said the younger one. Lydia, if I remembered correctly. She was six, and Emily was eight.

  "It's no fun when grown-ups get upset, is it?" I asked. "Come on, let's go outside. It's beautiful tonight."

  Jonathan gave me a terse nod, then went back in the room.

  The sun was still high over the Hudson. The Village of the Damned had beautiful grounds with wide, smooth paths and lovely landscaping, but no playground. They should think about that...a playground would give the grands and great-grands something to do when they visited.

  "Let's make fairy houses," I said.

  "What are fairy houses?" the little one asked.

  "You make a house for a fairy, and sometimes they leave you a little treat," I said.

  "Fairies aren't real," said Emily. Her father's girl, clearly.

  "I don't know about that," I said. "I've heard they're getting braver, since so many people believe in them these days. Come on, let's make them a house and maybe they'll visit. I'll show you."

  We went to the edge of the grounds, in sight of the front door so Jonathan could see us when he came out. "The first thing you have to do is find a place that's a little bit hidden, because they're shy."

  "How about here?" the little one said, pointing under a rhododendron bush.

  "Perfect," I said. "We need to find some sticks and maybe some moss and a few leaves."

  "And pebbles?"

  "And pebbles. Great idea."

  "What's your name again?" asked Emily.

  "Ainsley. And you're Emily, and you're Lydia, and I know this because your daddy has a picture of you in his office."

  "I hate visiting Grandpa," Lydia said. "He smells funny."

  "He yells at Daddy, and I hate him," Emily added. Her eyes filled with tears.

  My heart tugged, and I slid my arm around her. "Sometimes when people get old, they're confused and scared."

  She dashed the tears away. "That's what Daddy says, but I don't care."

  "Daddy says it's nice for us to come see him," Lydia said, "but mostly he doesn't know who we are." She held up a stick for my inspection. "Will this work?"

  "Let's see." I sat down on the grass and started making a little structure, digging the sticks into the soft ground, making a lean-to. "How about that moss for a roof?" I suggested. "And maybe some flower blossoms to make it pretty." Emily carefully placed the moss on top, and Lydia got some flowers.

  "It's pretty," Emily said. "Even if fairies won't
come."

  Aha. Progress. A few minutes ago, she didn't believe in them at all; now they were a possibility. I smiled at her, earning a small, shy smile back.

  The girls got into it, making a little path of stones to the structure, chatting away about what the fairies would like, asking me if I ever got any presents. I'd have to make sure to come back here and leave a little something (just in case the fairies didn't come through).

  The girls were getting pleasingly grubby, the knees on their tights stained with dirt. Sign of a happy childhood, I always thought. Candy always liked us clean; childhood baths from her were scrub downs, rather than the bubble baths I started taking the second I had a place of my own.

  Well. A place with Eric.

  But I did love baths, more than ever now that I was living with Kate.

  Not once had she suggested I look for my own place. Not once had she given the vibe that she found me irritating or too chatty. She didn't complain about Ollie, even when he'd barfed up some grass on the rug.

  I felt a rush of love for my sister. Pulled out my phone and took a picture of the fairy house, then texted it to her. Playing with two little girls and thinking of you. Glad you're my sissy. xoxox.

  I hoped she wouldn't think it was dumb.

  A second later, my phone buzzed. You're so sweet, Ains. Thank you. Same here!

  It was bittersweet that grief had made us closer.

  Jonathan was taking longer than I expected. It occurred to me I didn't know where he lived. A sterile condo would be my guess. "Are you staying at Daddy's place tonight?" I asked.

  "No. Mommy's and Uncle Matt's. We live half with them and half with Daddy," Emily said.

  "Yes, he told me." How icky, making the girls call him uncle!

  "Daddy hates Uncle Matt," Lydia said innocently.

  "Lydia! Don't talk about it," said Emily, shooting me a worried glance.

  "Why?" she said. "Annie's nice." She ripped up some grass from the perfect lawn to scatter around the fairy house.

  "Ainsley," I corrected. "I think you're nice, too, both of you. But don't worry, Emily. I won't say anything." I ripped up some grass, too. Nothing but the best for the fairies.

  "What have you got there?" came Jonathan's voice, and I jumped a little. I hadn't heard him coming. He stood behind us, hands in his pockets, tie off, jacket missing, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck.

  "Ashley taught us to make fairy houses and the fairies might come back and give us presents!" Lydia said, yanking his hand. "Look, Daddy, look!"

  Jonathan hunkered down and studied our work. "I like the little path," he said. "And the roof will keep them nice and dry if it rains."

  I felt an odd pressure in my chest. An odd, lovely pressure.

  "Daddy," Emily asked, "there aren't really any fairies, are there?" The look on her face practically begged him to contradict her.

  He put his arm around her and looked into her serious face, the expression so similar to his own. "I don't know," he said in that low, beautiful voice. "I haven't seen one since I was a little boy."

  "You saw one?" Lydia asked. "When, Daddy, when?"

  Jonathan stood up. "Oh, I was about seven," he said, artfully picking the age just between his daughters. "At first I thought it was a dragonfly, but it hovered in the air in front of me, and it had a face almost like a person, but a little strange, a little different."

  "Was she very beautiful?" Lydia asked.

  "Did she have hair?" Emily added.

  "She was beautiful, and yes, she had silvery hair. She seemed very curious about me. Then, just like that, she zipped away."

  "I want to see a fairy!" Lydia said, hopping up and down.

  "Is that a true story?" Emily asked.

  "It is." He smiled at them, that small, slight lift to his lips, and that feeling came again.

  Who knew that Jonathan Kent had a whimsical streak?

  "Why don't you make another down there?" Jonathan suggested. "In case there's more than one fairy who needs a house. Maybe over there, where that big tree is."

  The girls bolted down the lawn, Emily reaching out to hold Lydia's hand.

  The sun was setting over the Hudson, high cumulus clouds piling up in a creamy glow. We could see the lights of Cambry-on-Hudson wink on down below, and in the distance, the shining bridge. The Village of the Damned had the best view in town.

  "How's your dad?" I asked, not getting up from the grass. To my surprise, Jonathan sat down next to me.

  "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.