The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating (7 page)

Ethan looked wounded.

“He was always working,” he said. “As far as I know, he hadn’t settled on a particular topic. Did you read the article? There was nothing specific. And she’s a bottle blonde, obviously.” He reached over and patted Claire’s hand. Richard cleared his throat. “You have to admire her for sitting on it until the Giacometti died down—she got a Page Six scoop. I’d say it’s a good career move, except that she just got herself fired.” At that, he sounded a little happier.

“Don’t think about this,” Ethan said, after Richard hung up. “It seems like a lot of drama, but he’s a writer, honey. No one will care for long.”

“I think Richard cares.”

“This is slapstick. A two-bit art scandal, slutty yoga instructor, and a perverted, rich fuck. We should be writing a sitcom.” Ethan walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Need a drink?”

“Except it was my husband,” Claire said, sinking into the couch. “It seems a little less funny.”

“Well, it was an inconvenient death. He wouldn’t have wanted all these loose ends.”

“That’s not true. He never liked a neat story. He would have loved this,” Claire said.

Ethan handed Claire a soda. “Yeah, he would.”

Ethan was tasked with sorting through Charlie’s papers and computer files posthaste. He was to send Richard anything that looked like it might be part of a manuscript and organize the rest for the library at Princeton. Claire was relieved she had a reason to keep him employed.

Ethan had been Claire’s first crush in college. They had lived in the same dorm freshman year and shared a loose set of friends, including Sasha. He had the kind of lopsided smile mothers warned their daughters about—except that they should have been warning their sons. Claire didn’t understand it until a ski trip during winter break. They’d gone in a group that included Tyler Hayes, a scruffy jock from Hayden Hall. On their second night, in the great room of the huge cabin they’d rented, Claire saw the longing looks Ethan shot Tyler’s way and it all became clear. While Claire led Ethan out from the closet that year, it was Sasha who nabbed Tyler Hayes. Ethan moved to Los Angeles after graduation and Claire, of course, met Charlie. They kept in touch, though, and when Ethan was ready to come back to New York, Charlie was looking for a new assistant. Fate? Chance? Well, it was something.

Ethan was perfect. Not only was he a fan, but thanks to his time in L.A., he knew his way around ego; he knew how to flatter his new boss—he caught on fast. He was the only person Claire knew who had read every single thing Charlie wrote; Richard always went to him for pull quotes. Ethan had a savant’s grasp of the cumbersome Byrne opus.

When it came to dating, though, he was slightly less adept. He had a penchant for middle-aged men with stout portfolios. Ethan was trim and fashionable—he had no trouble attracting them—but he bored easily, he was erratic. He had difficulty holding on to any one man. His date at Charlie’s funeral, for instance—an environmental lawyer from Virginia—bolted a week later.

Claire watched Ethan work. He was intent. And muscular and tall, and probably great in bed—

“Oh, God. Ethan?”

“What?” He looked up, startled.

“Never mind. I need some air.”

“Okay, love. Good. I need caffeine.”

On the walk to Starbucks Claire felt a familiar wooziness, like she’d had the day after Charlie’s death, at the funeral home. But somehow between Bedford Street and Waverly she muscled through it. Inside, she stared at the chalkboard menu of swirly letters, overwhelmed.

Ethan ordered an Americano with cream and Claire panicked, like she’d stepped up to the dais in a crowded auditorium without her notes. “Cappuccino,” she said, though not with conviction.

“Wet or dry?” asked the barista. Claire looked back at the chalkboard. Sizes and shots and flavors and fats. There were three different measures, four blonde roasts, eleven dark, and five kinds of milk. There were espressos, Americanos, macchiatos, and half-caff frappes, with foam and without.

She felt the impatience behind her—shifting feet and heavy sighs. Ethan shot her a nervous look. Her stomach began to hurt. She picked up a packet of trail mix and set it on the counter. The barista glared. Claire grabbed Ethan’s arm.

“Hey, sweetie. It’s okay.” He took charge with the barista. “Dry, let’s make it dry.” His calm assurance, his lean body and long limbs, his very certain and solid presence tipped Claire over the edge.

“Why is coffee so fucking complicated?” The barista took a step back.

“It’s okay, honey.” Ethan put a five-dollar bill on the counter and led Claire out of the store. People parted on both sides of them, watching carefully, sensing that a woman might come unhinged right here in front of them, over whether to have wet or dry foam.

*   *   *

O
UTSIDE
, C
LAIRE SHOOK
loose and ran to the curb. She sat down. Immune to the dirty sidewalk and gutter litter, she buried her head in her hands and started to sob. It came out in high-pitched squeaks that she couldn’t control. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Shh, sweetie.” Ethan stooped and sat next to her.

“It feels so long.”

“What does, babe?”

“Life.”

Ethan rubbed her back.

“In the moment it feels short, but it’s really long.” Claire raised her head. Her face wet with tears. “I’m only thirty-two. There are still so many days to fill up.”

“It’s not so bad, Clarabelle.”

She wiped her eyes on his sleeve. “How’s it not so bad?”

“Well, think of it this way. You’ve never really been alone. You got married right out of college, you were so young. Before you could be a sun, you signed on to be a moon.” Ethan treaded carefully. “Charlie’s ideas became your ideas. His opinions became yours … but now you’re steering the boat.”

“Ethan, do you believe in soul mates?”

“I believe in everything. But Charlie was your soul mate the way Bennett from Mamaroneck was your soul mate, and the guy from Gallatin, the music studies major, was your soul mate.”

“Gerard,” Claire whispered.

“Right, Gerry. You were convinced you’d been married to him in a past life,” Ethan said.

“Maybe I’m poly–soul mate.”

“We all are, honey,” Ethan said, and he stroked her hair. “Derek Jeter is my soul mate. One of them.”

“The baseball player? You know him?”

“No. But if we met I bet we’d be soul mates.” This got a smile from Claire. They sat like this for an hour, Claire with her head on his shoulder, letting the Seventh Avenue din lull her calm again. And when she didn’t feel like crying anymore, and her body ached from sitting, they got up and walked home.

*   *   *

C
ARTER
H
INCKLEY WAS
waiting for them in the foyer, holding Charlie in the etched bronze urn. “Hi. I’m so sorry, Carter. I forgot.” Claire looked from Carter to Ethan. No one spoke. Ethan looked from Claire to Carter, then back to Claire. Ethan took the urn and broke the silence. “Well, you know what they say, a widow without ashes is like a cowboy without a hat.” Carter didn’t laugh. Claire looked horrified. “Call me if you need anything, Mrs. Byrne. Have a good night.” Carter nodded then left.

Ethan carried Charlie inside and sat him on the coffee table, then poured out two long shots of Maker’s Mark. Claire was not a bourbon drinker; this was a ritual Ethan had shared with Charlie. But she was grateful when he handed her the glass. Here they were, the three of them again. “You didn’t tell me Charlie was coming home today.”

“Funny, Ethan,” Claire said. “I can’t live like this.”

“Honey, your problem’s just structure,” Ethan said.

“Structure?”

“Yep. You need a story arc. You need signs of climax, somewhere, even just the hint of a climb. You need a journey. You need acts.”

“I skipped past journey to catastrophe.” Claire sipped her Maker’s Mark.

“Think of Charlie’s demise as your plot point. Where do you go from here?”

“I can’t even manage the menu at Starbucks. Where am I supposed to go?”

Ethan ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, his legs stretched out on the ottoman. “You’re too young to be mired in denouement.”

The intercom buzzed: chicken parmigiana and Gigi salad from The Palm. Where Claire grew up, people brought casseroles to the bereaved. In New York, well-mannered friends sent high-end takeout. Claire and Ethan ate from the containers with plastic forks. Ethan continued.

“You need divination. You need soothsayers and seers.”

“What do you mean, like a fortune-teller?”

“Don’t mock, Clarabelle. I’m serious. Here.” He wrote down a number.

“Who’s this?”

“Beatrice.”

Claire wrinkled her nose.

“You know, there’s barely any difference between a good psychic and your uptight shrink. Before Freud, dreams were interpreted as messages from the gods. Anyway, call her tomorrow. I’ll warn her.”

Claire knew of Beatrice; she was famous in Manhattan. She’d predicted the affairs and subsequent divorces of a number of prominent couples and was remarkably accurate about elections. She was also almost impossible to see, but Ethan had developed an odd friendship with her. He went to her apartment once a month for chicken Kiev.

“You’ll love her. Take a picture with you, though. She won’t read you without one.”

*   *   *

B
EATRICE WAS NOT
what Claire expected. She imagined a turbaned woman with spotted hands. Instead, she faced a long, willowy thing with delicate bones; she might have been a runway model in her youth, thirty years ago. Her face was angular, imposing.

Claire had ignored Ethan’s directive and, instead of a photograph, brought Charlie’s socks. Out of spite, maybe—at Charlie or at the psychic, she didn’t know. Either way, she regretted it immediately. As she handed them over, she could hear the clench of Beatrice’s jaw.

“I don’t read socks,” she said.

“I know,” Claire replied. “I suspected you didn’t, but they belong to someone close to me. They’re the last living sense of him. A picture … the pictures don’t seem real.”

“I won’t read a sock. Next time, bring a photograph of your husband.”

Claire hadn’t mentioned a husband. These were the first words they’d exchanged. Ethan might have told her, but she didn’t think so. Ethan believed in oracles, he believed in divination; he’d had the same Magic 8 Ball for twenty years and still consulted it. Ethan would not have interfered.

“He’s not my husband. He’s dead.”

This was true, wasn’t it? How could Charlie be her husband if he was dead?

Beatrice had sharp, judging eyes, like an owl’s. She fixed them on Claire and made a rumbling, guttural sound.

“I need to know my arc,” Claire said. “I’m on a journey without a plot. I need a story line.”

“Give me your hand, then.”

Claire clutched Charlie’s sock in her right hand while Beatrice read her left. In a charmless monotone, she made her announcements.

“There is a very refined and intellectual air about you…”

Claire, initially anxious, perked up.

“You create harmony wherever you go; people are calmed.”

Claire smiled.

“You have a cluster of healing and learning planets in Aries. This is the sign of the explorer. It is the opposite of your rising moon. Libra is partnership; it is something you haven’t had. You yearn for it.”

Claire nodded.

“You have an inquisitive mind. Your journey will be exciting.”

“Oh,” Claire said. With Ethan’s words in her head, she seized on “journey.”

“Your health will be good.”

Claire scratched her nose.

“And this is a time for you to focus on work.”

Claire paused to consider.

“How old are you?” Beatrice asked. It made Claire slightly suspicious—shouldn’t Beatrice already
know
?

“Thirty-two.”

“What day were you born?”

“Wednesday. May fourth.” Beatrice examined her for an unsettling amount of time before she went on.

“This year you will focus on work. You won’t find love.”

Beatrice looked up and Claire looked down, at her leathery palm. She arched a brow. “Are you sure? I might just need lotion.”

“A parade of silver-tongued charlatans and seducers will flatter you; you’ll fall prey to one of them. Like the circles of Dante’s hell, there will be all types. There will be gluttonous men and violent men and angry and lustful men. What you will not have is love. Not for one year. You are vulnerable to vanity, so beware. Your husband was an egotistical man, and just as the fly returns again and again to the web in spite of certain doom, you sense safety and warmth where you shouldn’t.”

Beatrice paused and cocked her head as if she heard an unfamiliar noise, then she went on.

“Your work will flourish. You will emerge from a chrysalis and derive satisfaction as a result. You will write this book they are talking about, but you will not write it the way they think.”

Claire gasped. Even if Beatrice had seen the gossip in the
Post
, that was still quite a leap.

“Now,” Beatrice said, lowering her voice. “I see someone in fuchsia. A close friend. She is taking unnecessary risks.”

Sasha
, Claire thought.
Only Sasha would wear fuchsia.

“And a man in a black suit … I have not a good vibration, but not entirely bad. A man in a black suit will come into your life and impact it in some way.”

Claire considered this. A lot of men wore black suits.

“Still,” Beatrice said, as if it needed repeating, “no love for one year.”

“Why not?” Claire asked.

“I don’t make the rules.”

RULE #4
: When in doubt, make your own rule.

Claire thought for a moment. “What happens in a year?”

Beatrice’s lids lowered and grew hoods like a cobra. “One year.”

8

Claire’s meeting with Beatrice left her disturbed. The widow was restless.

Ethan came to dinner on Sunday wearing fur and bearing gifts.

“Pickled vegetables,” he said, waving his hand across the jars. “Cauliflower, cabbage, carrots.”