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

way out of bed and into the bathroom. I avoid looking into his empty closet because it is a reminder that he is gone forever, the shelves holding only a thin layer of dust.

I’m brushing my teeth when I see Ashlyn’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. She’s already dressed in a black suit, her long hair pulled into a high ponytail.

“You’re ready early,” I manage before finishing up.

“I’m going to go over to the cemetery. I’ll meet you there,” she says, and there won’t be a discussion.

“No problem. I’ll catch up with you. I know it’s a tough day, honey,” I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. I don’t want a fight, not today.

“You’ll be OK getting there?” She is about to add something else but shakes her head.

“Yes, no problem.” I check my makeup and decide to apply more. My typical minimalist approach doesn’t cover the sudden loss of color in my cheeks, the circles under my eyes.

“I love you, Mom,” she says, and then she’s gone.

My phone vibrates on the bathroom counter. It’s Bob Atlas, our corporate attorney and longtime friend to both John and me.

“Glad I caught you. We need to talk.” Bob doesn’t waste time on niceties. That is fine with me. Today, I welcome the business distraction.

“Bob, John’s funeral is in an hour.” I take a breath and let out a sigh.

“Yes, I know. I’ll be there.” Bob sighs in return. “Can I give you a ride over?”

That sounds much better than driving and arriving alone. Corporate counsel seems the perfect escort today. “Sure.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And Kate. I am so sorry. Heart attacks sneak up on people all the time. I just never pictured that could happen to John.” He hangs up before I can reply.

John did have a heart condition, but he had been stable, on medicine for his high blood pressure. He was in great shape, and it was time to celebrate the success of the IPO. But none of that matters because the fact is, he died.

Everyone is sorry. Now he’s just a memory.

Today, I’ll likely be relegated to sitting in the second row of folding chairs at the service, I imagine, like a second cousin or a crazy aunt. But this will be the last time Tish hijacks my family’s spotlight. That’s a promise.

I pull on my black dress, add a strand of pearls, and slip on my sensible heeled black pumps. It really doesn’t matter what I wear, I know.

This service is simply something to endure.

I’m surprised when the doorbell rings. Time seems to be slipping, speeding up, and then slowing down to a crawl ever since we received the news of John’s death. Days pass slowly, but this, just now, the time between Bob’s call and his arrival, seems to have happened in a blink of an eye.

As I hurry downstairs, I realize I’m grateful for the company, grateful for a friendly, familiar face who is on my side. I open the front door and a wave of summer air rushes in. Even this early in the morning, it’s already a hot one.

Bob’s salt-and-pepper hair is thinning but still covers his head, and his forehead is lined with experience, deepened with sorrow. I know he’s going to offer the usual sympathy line, so I speak first.

“Thanks so much for driving me. I really wasn’t up for going alone,” I say, stepping out into the surprisingly warm and sunny summer day. Aren’t all funerals supposed to take place on overcast winter days? There should be a rule about that.

Bob opens the passenger door for me, a black sedan that seems fitting transportation to a funeral. He slides into the driver’s seat and doesn’t say a word. I’ve found Bob to be a remarkably neutral business adviser. When John and I had disagreements, Bob would not take sides. Instead he would carefully weigh both points of view. I value his counsel.

I take a breath. I have told myself this will be the last time I have to see Tish, ever. After this, she’ll return to wherever in the swampy south she appeared from, taking a large chunk of our fortune with her.

“How’s Ashlyn?” Bob asks as we pull into the parking lot of the cemetery.

I’ve only been here once. It was when John and I picked out our burial sites. He thought it was practical not to saddle Ashlyn with any decisions should something happen to both of us. Like a plane crash on a business trip, he’d explained. I think, maybe, it had been Bob’s idea. Something with the estate, but I don’t know now. All I remember is the way it made me feel to be here, contemplating death in the middle of life, cementing us as a team for eternity, or so I thought. And now, we’ll be using John’s half of our crypt.

“Ashlyn came ahead. She’ll be here.” I answer logistics because I don’t know how she is, not really. “Bob, was it your idea for John and me to secure a burial place next to his parents? Are you the reason we reserved spots in the mausoleum?”

“Yes, they were going fast, and it’s the best mausoleum in the city, but god knows I never imagined him needing to use it so soon. It’s tragic. At the height of his success, this happens. Had he been having heart issues?” Bob asks the twenty-million-dollar question.

“You knew about his high blood pressure, but he was on meds, so it seemed under control. You’d need to ask his wife, I suppose.” John never discussed his high blood pressure, never wanted anyone to know about it, likely not even Tish. He wanted to seem to be her age, not ours.

I clear my throat. “As you know, the last few months were very stressful, with the IPO. I think the stress, combined with the altitude in Telluride, was hard on his heart.”

Bob shakes his head as he pulls into a parking space. “He never should have done