The Next Wife by Kaira Rouda (speld decodable readers txt) 📕

home on Saturday. It takes five days to get the official death certificate now that the autopsy is finished.”

I hear her gasp at the word.

So I say it again. “Yes, he had an autopsy because it was sudden, and alcohol was involved, and he’s prominent or something.”

“You didn’t tell me that was happening,” Kate hisses.

“You never asked,” I say. “Besides, it came back all normal. Nothing criminal. Just his poor heart stopping. So Kate, please do as I’ve asked and focus on the memorial service. I know it will be a big deal. You can be onstage, the way you like it.” I’ll admit that was a low-blow comment.

“You’re unbelievable. You know that?” It’s Ashlyn piping in. Aren’t children supposed to be seen and not heard? “My mom and dad picked out the place where he wanted to be buried. They had a plan. Just honor that, why don’t you? Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

Oh, silly Ashlyn. She’s so clueless. I don’t have the time to get her back on my side right now. “That plan was made when your parents were together. They are divorced, and I’m his wife now. You don’t really expect me to bury your dad next to your mom’s slot, or plot, or whatever it’s called, do you? That just doesn’t make sense. I know you’re stressed, though, so I’m not angry with you.”

“I’m pleading with you, please. We’ll give you whatever you want, just send John home. To me. To his family,” Kate says. “At least tell me what you’re planning. I have a right to know.”

I took a breath. We need to be a grieving team once I’m back in Columbus. A unified front, they call it. Just the three of us: John’s women. I dig down deep for my last bit of sympathy for Kate, wife number one.

“I hear you. And I’m so sorry this has happened, for all of us. But you must understand that I’ll need to make the arrangements for John, the way he and I planned. We discussed this, and he had specific instructions.”

“You’re lying.” Ashlyn again. She is on my last nerve.

“You don’t know anything. I’m handling things.”

The only thing I heard on the other end was sobbing, so I hung up.

Of course Ashlyn is right. John and I hadn’t discussed our death plans—I’m the second wife. I’m vitality and youth and light. We had years to settle into that type of morbid rumination. Years of luxury travel, adventurous sex, and second-, third-, and fourth-home shopping.

There’s a knock on the door. Room service. I pull the fluffy white robe tight and answer the door to a handsome young server. He no doubt wonders how a woman his age could afford this suite. I walk to the sitting area of the room and take a seat. He places the silver room service tray on the coffee table in front of me and hands me the bill.

I leave him a big tip, and when I hand him the bill folder, our hands touch. He turns bright red before hurrying out the door.

As I eat my room service oatmeal, I reflect on the newly unified front. Does Ashlyn still hate her mom? I don’t see it anymore. I mean, Kate seems so, I don’t know the word, boring? So in control. When John told me he and Kate had never had sex at the office after building a company together, I was in shock. Who doesn’t do it on the conference room table when you own the whole place?

And then, just when we’d begun to enjoy our new life, really settle into a routine, he started drifting away from me.

Unbelievable. Disappointing. You can understand my anger with this situation now, I’m sure. I let my guard down, that’s what I did, and Kate the rat slipped back into his life.

I place my bowl of unfinished oatmeal on the room service tray and consider my next move. I have nothing but time as I wait for John’s body to be cremated so we can fly home.

It’s time to make an important call. I pull up Uncle George’s contact, and he answers immediately. I knew he would. We’ve been spending a good amount of time together recently—on the phone and in person. We go way back. It is too bad Uncle George wasn’t interested in helping me when I was a kid and being abused by my mom and her lovers. I suppose some of his overt interest in my affairs now is due to that negligence. Or maybe he just smells money? I guess that’s what all lawyers are good at: following the money.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, honey?” George’s slow drawl pulls out the last word like taffy. I imagine he’s in sweatpants and a size XXL sweatshirt with the Cincinnati Bengals logo printed on it, even though they never win, and nobody cares. He told me he doesn’t get dressed up for any client but me.

I sniff. Tears pop into my eyes. I did love John. I do still. “It’s John. He’s died.” And then the waterworks won’t stop. I think of John’s body on some slablike table, somewhere in town, waiting to be burned.

“I know. Saw it in the news. No need for tears. It’s all buttoned up, honey. We took care of it all when I was in town, remember? I know you liked him a lot, but now, you can move on. You’ll have all that money, everything you need. All the t’s are crossed, all the i’s are dotted, as they say.” I hear George sigh and take a sip of something. The sounds of clinking ice cubes and a slow slurp fill my ear. I put the phone down and put it on speaker.

“You’re right. I am fine, money wise.” I blow my nose and look around the penthouse suite. I can stay in hotel rooms like this every day for the rest of