Page 8 of The Widow's Husband's Secret Lie
I frown. “Nothing.”
“But there must be some sort of meaning or symbolism…”
“No. I’m just wearing the same necklace twice—that’s all.” I fiddle with my necklace, almost wanting to take it off just so she’ll stop asking me about it. Sheesh.
“Are you okay?” Poppy asks.
I shoot her a look. She’s seriously asking me that? Not only has my husband died in a fiery car wreck, but now I am seeing him at the grocery store. Does she really need to ask me if I’m okay? I am so clearly not okay.
“I mean,” she says quickly, “you look a little green.”
I have been keeping my nausea under wraps, but the second she points it out, it becomes overwhelming. I clamp a hand over my mouth and dash off to the kitchen as quickly as I can. I lean over the sink and vomit up everything I ate for lunch.
As I am bent over the sink, waiting to see if more is coming, Poppy’s footsteps behind me grow louder. As I straighten up,I find her standing behind me, staring at me with her mouth hanging open.
“Alice?” she says.
I’m pregnant.
I almost blurt out the words. Poppy is my best friend, and I’m desperate to tell her the truth. And I surely would have, except at that moment, the doorbell echoes throughout the house. Wow, literally saved by the bell.
“I’d better get that,” I say.
I at least have the wherewithal to gargle a little bit of water to rinse the vomit taste out of my mouth. Poppy hangs back in the kitchen while I tuck the strands of flaming-red hair behind my ears and pad over to the front door. I check the peephole, and for a moment, I am absolutely convinced that Grant will be standing there in one of his Armani suits, his Berluti leather briefcase clutched in his right hand.
But thank God, it’s not him. Instead, it’s a woman wearing a wool coat over a simple flower-print dress. She looks harmless enough, so I unlock the door.
The woman standing before me is about my height and build—she actually looks a bit like me. Her hair is a shade or two darker, but she has a similar nose and mouth and coloring. Someone could mistake us for sisters, or if not that, at least cousins.
“Hello,” I say politely. “Can I help you?”
She stands there, wringing her hands together. I wonder if she’s selling something. She doesn’t have anything with her that looks like it could be for sale, but perhaps it’s in a catalog. Or maybe she’s selling magazine subscriptions.
Ooh, or maybe it’s Girl Scout cookies. I hope that’s what it is. I love Thin Mints.
“Hello,” she says. “Are you Alice Lockwood?”
“Yes…” I say.
“And Grant Lockwood is…” She pauses. “Grant Lockwoodwasyour husband?”
“Yes.” I frown, suddenly wishing I had not opened the door for this strange woman. The chances of her pulling out a box of Thin Mints is decreasing by the second. “What is this all about? Who are you?”
“My name is Marnie.” She looks me straight in the eyes. “And I am Grant Lockwood’s wife.”
7
What?
For a full twenty seconds, all I can do is stare at this woman.I am Grant Lockwood’s wife.No matter how many times it repeats in my head, it still doesn’t make sense.
“That can’t be,” I say like the woman is a child who needs the concept of marriage to be explained to her. “Iam Grant Lockwood’s wife. And you can only have one wife.”
“I… I wasn’t his legal wife,” Marnie says. “But we lived together as man and wife for many years.”
This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Grant could not possibly have been living an entirely separate secret life with this other woman, who happens to look a lot like me. Who hastimefor something like that?
“Grant told me he didn’t believe in marriage,” she says in a voice tinged with bitterness. “I had no idea about you, of course. I was about to call the police because Grant hadn’t come home the night before, and then… then I saw his obituary in the paper.” She chokes on her words, her eyes welling with tears. I almost start to comfort her, but then I stop myself. “The obituary mentioned your name and… well, here I am.”
