Page 32 of The Next Wife

I look up at my daughter. I pat the hand on my shoulder with my own. “I was just reminiscing. We were good together. I’ll always—”

Ashlyn interjects, finishing my sentence. “Always love him. I know. Me, too.”

“Honey, we need to discuss our next steps.”

“What do you mean, next steps?” She gives me a look like you would a child who has surprised herself by saying her first word, half disbelief and half wonder.

“You and I are business partners now. You receive your dad’s shares in the company with his death. I made sure everything was sorted during the divorce, and Dad and I made a few other moves to protect your interest a few weeks ago. Tish may have stolen your dad away, and some of his money, but she won’t get anything else.” An image of John dissolving into ashes fills my mind. I shudder.

“Tish said she’s running the company now. She told me that in the parking lot after the memorial service,” my daughter says, repeating what Tish must have told her. I would never let that happen. Tish has no role here. I’ve made sure of it. I would never be wrong about something this important. I’m much too careful.

“She’s crazy. The law says she is only entitled to whatever he made during their three years of marriage, any property in her name, andpersonal items like jewelry. She’ll get a lot of money but otherwise, we’re finished with her. I have a copy of your dad’s will and trust. It’s in the safe. I can show it to you. The shares go to you. We both made that a stipulation of our wills. He wouldn’t change that. He gave me his word. It’s all taken care of. The company and more.”

“I hope so. I’m going out. I won’t be late.” Ashlyn holds up her hand as I’m about to remind her the funeral is early tomorrow. “I won’t miss the funeral. Don’t worry. Are they sliding Dad’s ashes in a drawer or something? How does it work? This is all so stupid. So gross.”

Her words are sharp, but tears swim in her eyes. I really don’t know how it will all work tomorrow—the funeral arrangements were handled by Tish, the interloper.

“It is.” I turn away so my daughter cannot see the fury on my face. Even though John and I spent twenty-three years together, I’m not the one planning his funeral. It should have been me. I cannot wait for this to be over. It’s time to get back to work.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. And don’t wait up. You need some sleep.” Ashlyn walks out of the room without saying another word. Which is probably for the best. For years we’ve been fighting, or as my therapist explains, Ashlyn has been asserting her independence. I think it’s more than that. She’s independent but confused. She feels abandoned by her dad, confused because when she was sixteen, he chose to leave her for another life, another woman not much older than she was. That’s tough. And as she would say, it’s gross.

I thought I would simply outlast Tish, truth be told. Once I found out about the affair, I decided to ignore it. I thought it was a phase John was going through and that he’d realize his stupidity in a couple of months and then we could deal with it through counseling. I was in denial, I suppose. And I also was wrong. Dead wrong.

I never imagined he would ask me for a divorce. I never imagined he would move out of our family home, never to return. I neverimagined he would go through with it and marry Tish. That would be socially unacceptable.

Something in me darkened deep down inside when I heard about their engagement three years ago. It was like a part of my heart dropped to the bottom of a cold, black sea.

I didn’t even know John had been drifting, but she did. And she grabbed him and held on tight.

I knew it wasn’t a phase the night he told me he was moving out.

That’s when everything changed.

I open a bottle of wine and pour a generous glass. It took a while, but about a year ago, my therapist and I celebrated my progress. I was no longer a victim, she declared. I had found constructive ways to channel my anger. I started developing the Forever project, a cutting-edge consumer portal for EventCo clients.

In the weeks before the IPO, John stopped by my office so often it was almost like back in our start-up days. He was eager to bounce ideas off me, and I was pleased to see him walk through my office door.

“Kate, do you have a minute?” He’d appear in my doorway without an appointment, Nancy frowning behind him.

“Come on in, John.” I’d smile at Nancy and close the door behind us. He was in my territory, my office, asking for my support.

“I can’t believe our luck. This thing is happening.” John’s glee was boyish and charming. Sometimes, Tish would walk past my office door, stalking him, somehow knowing we were together. John’s phone would ring, and he’d have an “important meeting” immediately.

Despite Tish’s maneuvers, I told Nancy to let John in to see me as often as possible, especially if he was alone. She had a little tally going of his visits—proof, she said, he wanted to reconcile. I don’t know what was in his heart. No one really knows another person, do they? I do know one thing for sure—if he hadn’t married Tish, he wouldn’t be dead. Of that I’m certain.

It must have been taxing, balancing Tish’s many demands and the reality of working at the same office with me, all the while making plans to take the company public, his biggest project ever. There was just so much strain on his heart, already weakened by his high blood pressure.

All it took was a little something more to push his heart over the edge. The high altitude in Telluride was never good for him, it just wasn’t.

CHAPTER 25

ASHLYN

I sit in my car, headlights off. I’m parked on the street across from Tish’s house, the one she talked my dad into buying because she said the condo was too small, too bachelor pad. It was, I agreed.

This house is two story, four bedrooms. Painted white, with black shutters. It looks like a family home, like it should be filled with kids and laughter. But it’s not. It never was. One of the bedrooms she called mine, but I never felt comfortable here. Well, I guess that’s not true. At first, when I still thought of her as a friend, when all of this was new and shiny, I did like it at their house. It was decorated “soft contemporary” according to Tish, with all neutrals: gray, cream, and white. It was like walking into Restoration Hardware, Tish bragged. I liked my all-new bedroom, decorated for an adult in all white with a rattan headboard and cool woven lights. A thriving potted fern in the corner by the bay window and a cozy sheepskin rug on the floor. The golf course the house is nestled next to made the backyard seem to go on forever, especially at night and on Mondays when no golfers were out. So, that first year they were married, I did enjoy it there. But it got old fast. Tish would try too hard to make me talk, to connect, to be best friends. Meanwhile, my dad would have his hands all over her. It turned gross and uncomfortable.

---