Wife and Ex-Wife

An interesting development occurred early in the new year. A major publisher in New York, having seen some of Patrick's illustrations for a small-press book of science fiction that had appeared a few months earlier, had been so impressed with his work that it hired him to be a regular cover illustrator for a new line of books it was starting. The work was so extensive—and remunerative—that Patrick was able to cut down his work at his office to half-time; by spring he had left that job entirely to become a full-time freelancer. The radical change not only had financial benefits, since he was (to his own—and Nina's—amazement) making even more money now than before, but he could work undisturbed in the mornings and afternoons and devote his full attention to Nina during the evenings. The addition of even a few more hours of companionship every day made a world of difference to their relationship, all apart from the fact that Patrick felt a lot better about himself and far less stressed and overworked. They drew even closer together than before, and both of them looked forward to their impending wedding with a tingle of excitement.

At first, since it would be a second marriage for both of them, Patrick had lobbied to have a very simple wedding, perhaps omitting a reception altogether. But Nina had put her foot down at that.

"I am

not

just going to walk into some office in City Hall and have some judge or justice of the peace mumble a few words and be done with it! I've said to you over and over again that marriage is a

public

affirmation of our love—and by God, I want the world to know we're married!"

In the face of her adamant opposition, Patrick yielded on the point, although urging Nina to keep the list of invitations to the wedding and reception relatively low, restricted to family and close friends. Nina exploited the ambiguity in Patrick's recommendation, thinking that inviting seventy-five to eighty people was actually quite a "relatively low" number. Patrick, resigned, went along with as good grace as he could. (

Weddings are for brides, aren't they? The groom is just a tedious but necessary accessory.

)

The wedding did in fact take place on the anniversary of their first meeting, June 8. It was, luckily, a warm and sunny day in Seattle, and the choice of the Arboretum was an inspired one. Nina looked scrumptious in a long pink ball gown decorated with beads that highlighted every curve on her body, and she was secretly proud that a fair number of the male members of the wedding party gawked at her with open mouths (and even, in a few cases, with a licking of their lips).

They all want to have their way with me, don't they?

she thought with an internal giggle.

But only Patrick's going to have that honor.

She also overruled Patrick's party-pooper idea of not going on a honeymoon at all, insisting that they take a trip to Hawaii—which, incredibly, Patrick had never visited—for a week. They had a wonderful time, and Nina couldn't get enough of telling everyone within shouting distance that she was a "wife" again.

And not just any wife—the wife of Patrick McAvoy, the artist and illustrator.

But the telephone call that Patrick got on his cellphone just four months after they had returned from their honeymoon introduced an unexpected new wrinkle in their idyllic existence.

*

It was quite late in the evening on that Saturday in mid-October when Patrick, snuggling closely with Nina as they watched the final minutes of a favorite film noir on DVD, that the call came in. Looking annoyed at the phone on the end table, he became agitated when he saw what the number was; and he freed himself from Nina's embrace and went away to the kitchen to take the call.

It was several minutes before Patrick came back into the living room. Even from a distance Nina could tell that his face had gone white, and he had a kind of spooked expression on his face.

"What's the matter?" she said in alarm. "Is something wrong?"

Oh, God, I hope nobody's died.

Patrick swallowed before saying, "That was Amelia."

Nina was startled. "Your ex? Why on earth is she calling you at this time of night?"

Patrick made his way awkwardly back to the couch where Nina was sitting. "She—she's in trouble."

"What do you mean? What kind of trouble?"

"She's having trouble with her boyfriend. He either hit her or threatened to hit her or something like that. I couldn't quite get the full story—she's pretty upset. She . . . wants my help."

"

Your

help?" Nina cried. "Why you? You've not been her husband for, what, three years? How does she even have your phone number?"

Don't tell me you've been in touch with her all this time . . .

"Oh, Nina, I've had the same cellphone number for years and years! It's not surprising that Amelia would remember what it is. Trust me, I haven't spoken more than five words to her since we divorced."

Nina breathed a sigh of relief; she fully believed what Patrick was saying. "But—but I still don't get why she wants

you

to help. Doesn't she have any women friends?"

"I don't think she has any women friends she's close enough to that she can turn to them in this situation. Anyway, she seems to think she needs a man to protect her."

"

Protect

her? Oh, that's absurd! If this brute of a boyfriend is threatening her, why doesn't she just call the police?"

"I gather she's scared of making him even angrier than he is now. He seems to be something of a hothead."

"Well, that's obvious. But what exactly does she want you to

do?"

Patrick had now gotten up and was going to the coat closet to get a wrap. "Look, maybe she just wants someone to talk to until she settles down. She's at a café near her apartment downtown. If I just calm her down a bit, maybe she'll realize that she's overreacted." But he gave Nina a worried look when he added: "I may have to bring her back here."

"

Back here?

Why—?"

"It would just be for the night. She seems pretty incoherent right now. If she has a safe place to stay tonight, she may feel better in the morning."

"Oh, Patrick, I don't like the sound of this!"

"Nina, there's nothing to worry about. I'm just trying to offer a little help. I mean, I

was

married to her for four years—I can't just leave her in the lurch. Just take it easy—everything will be fine."

And he turned his back on his wife and left the house.

I don't think everything's going to be fine at all,

Nina thought.

I think things are going to get very bizarre.

*

Patrick didn't have trouble locating the café where Amelia was holed up, nor—at that hour of night—did he have difficulty finding a parking space nearby. It was now past 11 p.m., and the café itself was largely deserted. Patrick found her cowering in a booth toward the back of the place, her eyes wide with fear.

"Hi, Amelia," he said as he slid into the seat opposite hers.

Her eyes widened even further before she relaxed and said, "Hi, Patrick."

A bored waitress drifted in the direction and asked what they wanted. It became clear that she was not happy with the fact that Amelia hadn't ordered anything. Patrick formulaically asked for two coffees, even though he wasn't planning on drinking any of his. The waitress turned on her heel without a word and walked away.

Patrick turned his attention back to Amelia, evaluating her critically. This was the first time he had seen her in more than three years, and for some reason he was expecting her to look radically different. In fact—and vaguely to his alarm—she looked almost identical to the wife he had parted from. Petite (no more than five foot two) but a little fleshier than Nina, her chief virtue was luxuriant blond hair that she liked to style in all manner of different ways. At the moment she had had it curled and teased so that it looked a bit like a soft, untidy helmet around her head, and the wispy bangs added to her youthful appearance. Her features were soft and regular, with piercing green eyes, slender nose, high cheekbones, a delicate jawline—and eminently kissable crimson lips.

Patrick's heart flipped over when he saw her. And a flood of memories, both good and bad, overwhelmed him so that he was barely able to speak.

Amelia couldn't—or didn't—speak either, merely breathing irregularly, her chest heaving. For some moments her eyes locked onto his; then she looked away, blushing.

"Are you hurt?" Patrick finally managed to say.

"What?" she said, startled.

"Did he—did he hit you? I thought you said he did—or might have."

"Well, no," she said, looking down at herself as if to check if she were really in one piece. "He—he pushed me against the wall, and his face turned beet-red, and I

thought

he was going to do something, but he didn't. Anyway, I didn't give him the chance. I broke away from him and just snatched up my purse and fled."

"What was the argument about?" Patrick asked.

"Oh, God, I don't know!" she wailed. "He—his name is Jack, and he's a contractor. He's been struggling to find work, and it's made him cranky. He doesn't like to 'live off a woman,' as he puts it. So something I said—I can't even remember what—made him think I was calling him lazy, and he went ballistic."

The waitress now returned with the two coffees. As Patrick expected, Amelia didn't touch hers any more than he touched his.

"A contractor?" he said, surprised. "Somehow that doesn't seem the kind of guy you'd go for."

"And what kind of guy might that be?" Amelia said tartly.

"Well, you know, it just seems so different from your line of work." Amelia was part of the online support staff of a Seattle weekly paper.

"Patrick, I like men of all different occupations."

Oops, that doesn't sound quite right.

"I mean, what a guy does for a living doesn't interest me all that much."

"How long have you known him?"

"About three months."

Once again Patrick expressed surprise. "Three months? Is that all? And you're living with him?"

Amelia closed her eyes and pursed her lips. "Please don't cast judgment on my lifestyle choices. You're not my mother. I want your help, not a lesson in personal morality."

That was one of the things that Patrick didn't like very much about Amelia: she was quick to take offense, quick to perceive a slight where none was intended.

"I'm sorry, Amelia, I didn't mean anything by that. I just thought that you knew him longer."

"Well, I don't."

"So what are you going to do now?"

"I'm done with him—that's for sure!" she said vehemently. "This isn't the first time he's come close to beating the crap out of me, and I'm not going to stand for it anymore!"

"Glad to hear it. Men like that don't deserve to have a woman like you."

"Thank you," she said, a wee bit sarcastically. "I guess I haven't made very good choices in men the last few years."

Patrick knew nothing about her "choices" and didn't want to know.

"When I asked what you're going to do now," he said, "I meant: what are you going to do right now? You obviously don't want to go back to your place."

"You're damn right about that!"

Patrick moved his coffee cup around on its saucer, even dipping a finger into the not so hot liquid and getting a taste of its bitterness. "Maybe," he began slowly, "you can stay with us."

Amelia was silent for so long that he wondered whether she had heard what he'd said.

"You know that I married again, don't you?" he went on.

"Yes," she said in a choked voice.

"You do?"

"Yes. Someone told me."

"Who?"

"I can't remember."

They both lapsed into silence, and Patrick wondered if Amelia was deliberately avoiding the suggestion he had just put to her.

But then she said, "I can't—I shouldn't."

"Why not?" he said.

"I don't think your wife would like it very much!" she said quite loudly.

"Don't worry about her—she'll be fine. I already mentioned to her that it might happen."

"And what did she say to that?"

"Never mind. I tell you she'll be okay with it."

"I very much doubt that!

I

wouldn't be okay with it if I were in her position!"

Once again they fell silent.

God!

Patrick thought.

She's not even my wife anymore, and I'm having an argument with her!

"Look," Patrick added urgently, "I don't want you staying in a hotel. Maybe this Jack guy will somehow be able to find you and—and—" He didn't want to contemplate that prospect.

"I don't want to stay in a hotel either," Amelia said in a small voice.

"You shouldn't be alone," he pressed.

"I know."

"Well, then, where else are you going to stay? He doesn't know where I live, so he can't possibly track you down there. Anyway, we need to make arrangements for you to get your stuff out of that place and go somewhere else. I can help you with that."

Amelia's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Thank you," she said. "It's very kind of you. I don't deserve—"

"Don't you say anything like that," he said almost viciously. "I want to help you. I can't help being concerned about you."

Amelia gave him a startled glance, then looked down at her hands.

"Let's go, then," Patrick said. "It's already late."

"Don't you want to call your—your wife"—she had trouble getting the word out—"and let her know we're coming?"

"No need," he said shortly.

He shuffled out of the booth, tossed some bills—far more than what the two coffees cost—on the table and waited for Amelia to stand up. When she did so, he took her elbow and led her out of the café.

"Do you have your car?" he asked.

"Yes. Luckily the keys were in my purse."

"Okay. Well, you can follow me—I still have the same Prius that I drove before. It's right over there." He pointed to it.

"Yes, I recognize it," she said in a strange voice.

"Let me just give you the address, in case we get separated." He texted her the address of Nina's house.

They got into their respective cars and drove off, reaching the house in about twenty minutes.

Amelia pulled into the driveway behind Patrick, but she seemed frozen in place. Patrick expected her to get out of the car and follow him up to the front door, but she remained seated in the car. Patrick approached and, when Amelia still failed to move, opened the car door.

"Amelia? Are you coming?"

She exhaled heavily and said, "Okay." It was as if she were heading to her imminent execution.

He again took her by the elbow and led her along the walkway and up the few steps to the front door. He was momentarily flummoxed as to why the key he was using wasn't opening the door, but then he realized he was using the wrong key. Finding the right one, he flung the door open and let Amelia walk in ahead of him.

Amelia came face to face with Nina, standing in the middle of the room wringing her hands.

"Hi," Amelia said breathlessly.

"Hi," Nina said, eyes wide.

Patrick clumsily closed the door behind him and said, "Nina, this is Amelia. Amelia . . . Nina."

Amelia walked stiffly to Patrick's wife and shook her hand.

Nina couldn't seem to take her eyes off the woman in front of her.

Omigod, she's so much prettier than I thought!

The few pictures of her that Patrick had shown her didn't do her justice, Nina concluded with a sinking heart.

"Is she all right, Patrick?" she said.

"She's okay," Patrick said. "Just shaken up a bit. I hope"—he couldn't look at her as he said the words—"it's okay if she stays here tonight?"

"Yes, of course!" Nina said almost too hastily. "Anything for—"

For Patrick's ex-wife.

"It's so kind of you," Amelia said. "I don't want to be a bother."

"No bother," Nina said, her voice rising.

Amelia didn't know who to speak to, so she tried to address both of them in saying: "Patrick, Nina, I think I just want to go to bed. I'm really tired." And she looked it.

"I'm sure you must be, you poor thing!" Nina said, hoping she didn't sound too patronizing. "You—you don't have any clothes?"

"Of course not!" Patrick said sharply, frowning at his wife. "She had to leave her place in something of a hurry."

"Patrick," Amelia chided, "she didn't know."

"It's okay," Nina said. Looking her over, she went on: "You'll need a nightgown, I guess."

"That would be nice."

"Come over here, dear," Nina said, extending her hand. "You'll be in the guest room down the hall. I think there are some things in the closet."

Leading Amelia along like a child, Nina took her into the spare bedroom. She opened the closet door to see what was there. She took out a long nightgown and held it in front of Amelia, saying, "Hmmm . . . this is too long." She put it back and fished out another one. "I hope you don't mind wearing this one. It's a little short, but it should fit otherwise."

It was a "baby-doll" nightgown that only went down to the middle of Nina's thighs; but on Amelia it would reach almost to her knees.

"It's fine," Amelia said. "Thank you."

"You'll need some toiletries," Nina said with almost manic efficiency. She rushed to the bathroom down the corridor and dove into a cabinet next to the sink. "Here's an unused toothbrush. You can shower in here in the morning. There are some clean towels up there"—pointing to a higher shelf in the cabinet. "I'll get you some clothes to wear."

"That's so nice of you, Nina."

The two women suddenly came to a halt, facing each other in the narrow corridor. Impulsively, Nina wrapped her arms around Amelia and held her close.

"You poor dear!" she cried. "You've been through so much."

Amelia wasn't quite clear what she meant.

Do you mean having Patrick divorce me or getting nearly beaten up by my oaf of a live-in boyfriend?

She wasn't entirely comfortable with the curious affection she was receiving from Patrick's new wife, but she bore it as best she could.

At last pulling away, she said, "I—I don't mean to . . ."

To get in the way of your marriage.

Whether Nina understood Amelia's meaning was unclear. She said: "It'll be okay, dear. We women have to stick together, don't we?"

"I guess we do," Amelia said, trudging off to her bedroom to get ready for bed.

*

"It's very kind of you to—to let Amelia stay here," Patrick said as he undressed in their bedroom.

"Well, it's the least we can do," Nina said, also disrobing.

"You didn't seem so keen on the idea when I first suggested it."

"Oh, Patrick, I was just caught off-guard! I didn't expect her to come back into your life."

"She's not back into my life. I just want to help her through this difficulty."

"I understand that. I want to help her too."

They both slipped into bed, and Patrick made a show of holding Nina in his arms.

"I'm just grateful that you're being so accommodating."

"Well, I don't like to think of her being brutalized by some horrible man." Then, looking up at Patrick, she said with a faint trace of resentment: "You didn't tell me she was so beautiful."

Patrick scowled at his wife. "You're beautiful, too, you know."

That wasn't exactly the answer Nina was wanting.

I wish he'd said, "You're a lot prettier than she is!" I know it's silly to try to compete with her, especially on something so superficial as appearance. But women get judged by their looks a lot more than men do!

"I may have to help her move out of her place," Patrick added.

"You what?" Nina said.

"She needs to get out of that place. She needs to get away from that 'horrible man,' as you put it. It probably won't take long—I doubt she has a lot of stuff she wants to take."

Nina lapsed into silence, resting her head on Patrick's bare chest. All of a sudden she raised her head, as if startled by something.