LITMIR.BIZ

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conversation had taken place just a few weeks ago.

      I realized I was gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white.

      “Turn on the radio, Kate,” I said aloud. I hadn’t slept much lately, and my brain was fuzzy. I started the car, backed carefully out of the driveway, still worried that I’d take down the mailbox, then headed out. On the radio, a man-child scatted and falsettoed about being dumped. “Maybe if your testicles dropped, she would’ve stayed,” I said, then laughed. Hey, look at me! Laughing! See? All was not lost.

      I rolled down the windows, the smell of rain and soil hitting me. Spring was here, wedding season. I was booked almost every Saturday from May through August. Maybe going to weddings wasn’t a smart idea. Would I cry? Would I run out, sobbing? Or would I just do what I’d been doing for the past fifteen years?

      Oh, goody, a song I liked! “Lose Yourself” by Eminem. Good, good. Very inspirational, seize the moment, step into your power, all that Oprah-speak, but with cussing.

      At a stoplight, I found that I was singing the bass line—“Whump whump whump whump bump bump bump bump. You better lose yourself—” And that was where I didn’t know the lyrics but kept singing anyway. You go, Eminem, foul-mouthed genius from the bad side of town! Yeah! “You only get one shot something something something yo!”

      My eye caught the car next to me. The driver gave me a nod. I smiled and kept singing. Maybe she liked Eminem, too. She didn’t smile back.

      Ah, shit. It was Madeleine, Nathan’s first wife.

      Here I was, pretending to be a skinny white rapper, and she looked like...well, like someone had died.

      The horn behind me blared, and I floored it, then braked hard as I turned into Whole Foods.

      For a second there, I’d forgotten that Nathan was dead.

      Inside the grocery store, it was as cold as a morgue. Poor choice of words.

      I couldn’t remember what I’d come for. Vegetables? Why not? Whole Foods did have the prettiest produce in the entire world, even if it did cost a million trillion dollars. I tossed a cucumber into my cart. Too bad I didn’t have my camera; the eggplant was downright seductive, all that smooth, dark color gleam. I grabbed one of those, too. I loved eggplant parmesan, not that I’d ever made it before. But I had lots of time on my hands now, didn’t I?

      Yes. I’d become a great cook. I’d channel Ainsley and tie on an apron and cook really nice dinners. Salads and everything. Candles on the table, because Nathan had the coolest candleholders. He actually bought those Jo Malone candles that cost the earth and smelled like heaven. Did straight men buy Jo Malone candles? Did they? I guess it didn’t matter anymore.

      Nathan had plenty of china, too, and glasses for every beverage under the sun—water, wine (red, white, champagne), whiskey tumblers, martini glasses, all matching, which I still found thrilling. Not to mention his enchanting silverware, designed by a Hungarian woman whose work was featured in the Cooper Hewitt. I knew this because Nathan told me. He was very proud of those forks and spoons.

      He’d never eat off those plates again. Never sit at his own table again. Never use one of his perfectly balanced, adorable spoons for ice cream.

      Then again, I could paint the dining room. Honestly, every room in the house was white. I was dying to slap some red on a wall somewhere.

      That rusty spike seemed to slam through my throat again in an actual, physical pain, as if someone with very strong hands was intent on killing me.

      “Kate, isn’t it?”

      I looked up. An older woman was addressing me. “Yes. Hello.”

      “I’m Corinne Lenster. Eloise’s friend? I was at the funeral, but of course, so was the entire town.”

      “Oh, sure,” I said, though I didn’t recognize her. “How are you?”

      She smiled sadly. “I’m so sad for you, dear. Nathan was such a wonderful young man. He and my son were friends in high school. He and Robbie—my son—went skiing in Utah their senior year, and they got stuck on the lift, and Robbie...”

      Her voice droned on, but the words started blurring together.

      Nathan had never mentioned this story. I didn’t know he’d gone skiing in Utah. Did I even know he liked skiing? Yes, yes, I did. We actually went skiing in Vermont over Thanksgiving weekend. Right, right.

      But this story? This Robbie-stuck-on-a-lift person? I didn’t know him. Why hadn’t Nathan ever told this story? What else didn’t I know? How was it that there was a great (maybe) story from his youth, and I didn’t know it? Hmm? Huh?

      What’s-her-name kept talking. She was extremely well dressed for the grocery store, I noted. I was wearing my If Daryl Dies, We Riot T-shirt. Must avoid Walking Dead references when one is a new widow. Must also remember to wear a bra.

      God. She was still talking. Was this normal, people ambushing widows in the grocery store to tell them things they didn’t know about their husbands? I nodded as if I was following the story, and the spike in my throat turned harder.

      In the background, I suddenly heard the piped-in music. “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston (who was also dead).

      “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I said.

      “Excuse me?” the woman said.

      “It’s the grief talking.” Someone else had said that. It was a good line. I planned on using it often. Horribly, laughter rolled through my stomach. I clamped my lips together hard. Nathan, do you see this?

      The lady nodded. “Dear...you’re not wearing shoes.”

      I looked down. “Huh. Look at that! I wondered why the floor was so cold.” My toenails were still bloodred. Nathan had painted them for me as I lay on the couch one night a couple of weeks ago.

      “Perhaps you should go home,” she said.

      “I need half-and-half,” I said. Aha! That was what I was here for! “Bye. Nice talking to you.” With that, I pushed my cart down the aisle, my eggplant and cucumber trembling with the cart’s faulty wheel action. Over the PA, Whitney changed keys, bringing it home. “And I-aye-aye...will always...love you-ooh-ooh-ooh...”

      Maybe I should sing along. This one’s for you, Nathan Coburn! I could grab that cucumber and pretend it was a mic and let loose.

      Puffs and squeaks of laughter leaked out—poor dead Whitney was killing me.

      Oh, what was this? Organic pumpkin pie ice cream sandwiches in April? Hooray! Someone up there must like me, and three guesses as to who it was! The hysterical laughter wriggled and leaped inside my chest, making me snort some more.

      Probably, I looked insane. No shoes, no bra, Daryl Dixon on my chest, eggplant, cucumber, pumpkin pie ice cream bars in my cart.

      The floor was really freezing. My feet would be filthy. The polish needed changing. But if I changed the polish, it would be gone forever, The Polish That Nathan Applied. Nathan would not return from the dead to give me a pedicure.

      The laughter stopped.

      I’d leave that bloodred polish on until it chipped off.

      Cause of death: cerebral hemorrhage.

      Please, Higher Power. Please that it was painless. Please that he wasn’t scared.

      He hadn’t looked scared. He’d only looked...dead.

      In front of the dairy case was an old, old woman, creeping, creeping, inching along. She stopped right in front of the half-and-half and opened her purse. Shuffled through it. She had several thousand coupons to consider. I considered reaching around her, then decided it would be rude. Waited. Waited some more.

      I had the sudden urge to ram her with my cart.

      Why was she still

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