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

When a perfect couple with everything going for them suddenly implodes, there are shock waves. I know the rumors as well as anyone else. I should say I know now. I wish someone had warned me, but no one did. I didn’t pick up on a clue, a telltale lipstick stain on the collar, or too many late-night meetings. Once I found out, it’s all I thought about. But even then, I was convinced it was a fling. Turns out I was very wrong.

“How could this happen?” My best friend, Christine, had paced across the floor of my kitchen, distraught, but more to the point, bummed she didn’t discover the truth about John first. Her blonde bob shook back and forth with her stride. “I know everything that happens in this town. This is unacceptable.”

“It is.” I took another drink of the French burgundy she’d brought with her when she rang the doorbell unexpectedly. As soon as I saw her face at the back door, I knew everyone had heard about John’s affair. “They say the wife is the last to know. They are right.”

“Damn it. You two are perfect. Everyone says it. Look at what you’ve built. And I mean you.” Christine stopped, grabbed her wineglass. “I’m writing a story about the true brains behind EventCo. It’s time, beyond time. I’ll place it nationally. You’ll have guys lining up to get in your pants.”

“Honestly, the last thing that attracts men is a woman who seems smarter, savvier, and more powerful than they are in business. Trust me.” I know from experience. The only way we could grow EventCo was through John’s good-old-boy network. Sure, banks are supposed to treat women-owned companies equally. Sure, private clubs and investment bankers are supposed to, too. But just like women earn on average seventy cents to every dollar a man makes, women-owned businesses have a long way to go to be equitable when it comes to financing. We decided together to have John take the CEO title. Telling that story now would just be spiteful. “I’m not sure anybody would care.”

Christine stared at me. “You’re afraid to step into your power. That’s the problem. We need to expose him. I can write it.”

“No, you can’t. I won’t let you. It would hurt the company. And maybe, maybe this is just some phase he has to go through? Maybe he’ll wake up?” I sipped my wine and realized my hope sounded about as realistic as snow in Columbus in July.

“How old is she?” Christine was pacing again.

“Twenty-two.” I touch the limestone countertop, willing myself not to cry. The fact that John moved out two nights earlier still seemed crazy. Really, John?

“Unbelievable. What a shit head. And you didn’t see any signs? Completely blindsided, even though you all work together every day.”

“I was busy, you know, running a company.” I sounded lame. But that much was true. I didn’t have time for an affair. But John did.

I turn my focus back to the line of mourners and take a deep breath. John left me more than three years ago now. I still cannot fully believe he actually married her. I thought it was a fling. That it would end. I never imagined another Mrs. Nelson.

But still, I held my head high. I survived, bided my time until he realized his mistake. Because I knew he would. How could he not?

I watch Tish hugging a mourner, a large man with an old fedora on his head, and wonder who it is. He does not speak with me before hustling away.

As I watch the stranger recede, my thoughts crystalize. John was leaving her. He told me as much over lunch. But did she know they were over? Maybe she did? The realization zips through me.

I look at her again. Tish’s bracelet is too much for this place—the diamonds sparkle in defiance of the sadness in the room. She’s a walking billboard for the phrase money can’t buy taste. I cannot wait until she is out of our lives forever. I remind myself we just need to make it through this ceremony, and the funeral tomorrow. And then she’s a bad memory.

“Mom,” Ashlyn says. “What are you doing?”

She caught me staring at Tish. “Nothing, darling. How are you holding up?”

Ashlyn shrugs. Focus on the present, on the mourner in front of you, I tell myself while my brain searches through scenes when John, Tish, and I were together at the office. Before I knew the truth of their affair. Did I miss something? A lingering touch, a secret smile? No, there was nothing. They were sneaky.

She was the mastermind, I’m sure of it. The woman always is.

Ashlyn tugs on my sleeve. “Mom, you’re holding up the line.”

I look at the next person in line. “Hello, Bill,” I say to the man who manages our country club.

“I’m so sorry, Kate,” he says.

“I’m sure you are, Bill,” I reply. I do not care for the man. He’s a sexist and an opportunist. A horrible combination.

Bill turns to Ashlyn and grabs her hand with a big shake. I fight the urge to push him away from her. She lets people in too easily. The wrong people.

“Hi, Mr. Oyster,” Ashlyn says, but she isn’t smiling. Maybe she knows what he is, too? Good girl.

Tish stares at me. She has nothing to do but wait until Ashlyn escapes Bill’s grip. I can’t believe just over one short week ago we were all in our conference room together—Tish viewing me with disdain as if I were some old has-been relic, and her looking smug and in charge with her all-black outfit that matched John’s. The memories of that day trigger a rush of strong emotions despite another mourner touching my shoulder.

I’ll never forget how out of place, how uncomfortable she tried to make me feel in my own office, standing there preening in the conference room with John by her side. As if she had anything to do with the company’s success, as if she belonged