Melissa sure hadn’t seen that coming. Dennis had never been healthier, thanks to her cooking, especially since she made him lay off the junk food after Ophelia came. He played racquetball and went for the occasional run. Sometimes he even used the elliptical in the den.
No, it was a shock. A terrible shock. Her legs gave out when his partner Saul came over to tell her the news, and he had to help her to the couch. She cried without even trying. Dennis had given her so much. He’d been generous and kind and . . . well, generous. They’d been so happy these past three years. He’d been a wonderful father figure for Ophelia, who sobbed for a week straight, her cheeks red, nose raw. Shock carried them through the wake and funeral and after-lunch (at the Princeton Club, since Dennis was a member . . . quite lovely).
And then . . . then Melissa realized that some of her newlywed decisions had been extremely prescient (word of the day!). She had taken out a life insurance policy and, after they bought the apartment, mortgage insurance. Her life of poverty before Dennis had made her financially savvy, and she had planned carefully once the golden door was opened for her. She wasn’t going to be one of those second wives who got nothing if Dennis died first (and he would, because he’d been twenty-nine years older than she was, though he never knew her real age).
Dennis didn’t leave a will, which served Melissa quite well. Probate said she got the apartment, now fully paid for and worth somewhere in the realm of ten million dollars. Also, her lawyer informed her, because of the nonexistent will, Melissa got 50 percent of all his money and stock holdings, including his share of his orthopedic practice buyout, with Nick and Amanda dividing the other 50 percent.
His first wife . . . she got nothing.
Melissa was suddenly very, very wealthy. And, because she was not stupid, she invested most of that with a stodgy wealth management firm so it would keep earning her money. No spending spree (yet). She knew to take her time and reframe her life. From trophy wife to independently wealthy woman . . . not bad at all! (May you rest in peace, Dennis.) She would be a queen of New York. An important hostess, a charity maven, the head of many committees. Maybe she could get on the board of the Met and go to the gala and become friends with Rihanna! Wouldn’t that make the other women in her circle jealous!
However, once the fuss over Dennis’s death died down, Melissa’s social status changed. She was a widow now. In other words, wife material. The book club and dinner invitations stopped. An older man had married Melissa, and she’d made him very happy. In other words, she could do it again. No taint of divorce, just a young, beautiful, wealthy widow. The quadruple threat.
* * *
One night a couple of months after Dennis’s death, Melissa sat in their beautiful apartment and looked out at the city lights. She missed Dennis, the companionship, his good nature, the buffer with Ophelia. All the things they’d done together—Broadway shows, dinners out, charity events, running in the park, weekend brunches, even just watching a movie after Ophelia had gone to bed. Dennis had appreciated her, except for that short period when he was irritable and restless.
She missed being married.
A change was needed. She was only twenty-nine, a single mother, not that Ophelia would call her “Mom.” She hadn’t even given her a card on Mother’s Day. Hadn’t even drawn one. Dennis had given her flowers and perfume the past few years and signed the card from both of them. This year, the first without him, Ophelia hadn’t done a thing.
New York, which had been so dazzling at first, was getting dull. Ophelia was silent and still cried at night as Melissa tried to make her feel better, stroking her mass of matted curls that no hairbrush could tame, trying not to let the child hear her sigh.
It was a real downer. And she was sitting on a pile of money. It might be time to move. Someplace where rich people lived, but also somewhere romantic. Palm Beach? Ugh. Florida’s weather spared no one. Southern California, maybe? Except there were so many celebrities there, it would be hard to stand out. The Monterey Peninsula, where that TV show had been filmed? Maybe. California was intimidating, though. Earthquakes and wildfires, those whipping winds.
But the itch to move had taken root.
When summer vacation hit (her least favorite part of the year, with Ophelia flat-out refusing to go to sleepaway camp, no matter how posh), Melissa tried to book a house on Nantucket, where so many of the other families in their circle—their former circle—had homes. Unfortunately, there was nothing left, as all the really cool rental houses were solidly booked. Same with Martha’s Vineyard.
Besides, those islands were glutted with the rich, important and famous, and the thought of bumping into Jennifer Lawrence or Michelle Obama made Melissa feel . . . ordinary. She wanted to be the star. She wanted to be the one people talked about. It had been the case for her six-year marriage in their wealthy little circle, and it had been so . . . affirming (word of the day!). Was it wrong to want that again? She didn’t think so.
She found a lovely rental for a few weeks in August on Cape Cod, a place she had never been. The Outer Cape. It sounded so romantic . . . and it was. The wind gusted from every direction, howling in the chimney of their rented home. Melissa felt like she’d never seen a sunset before their first night there, watching the glorious colors linger for well over an hour after the sun sank into the sea. The ocean roared, and there were sharks, even! Seals popped up in the water, and a red fox trotted through their yard.
Even Ophelia couldn’t pretend to be unhappy here.
Here, Melissa knew she’d stand out. She could be special in a way she couldn’t in New York or Montecito. Her wealth, her good looks, her carefully modulated voice and bright white smile would make more of an impression here. On the Outer Cape, she’d be seen.
She’d buy a house—so affordable compared with those other places!—and maybe start a yoga studio. She’d give Ophelia a different kind of small-town life than the one they’d both had in Ohio, and a more relaxed, less competitive life than New York offered, because let’s face it: The child didn’t try too hard at anything.
And so she bought a house in Wellfleet, right there on the shore, dazzling and full of light; took Ophelia out of school and promised her a puppy. She took great pleasure in organizing the move . . . and also telling her former friends that she and Ophelia were tired of the grime and noise of the city, the privilege that put children so out of touch with the real world. Take that, book club that had stopped inviting her. Take that, orthopedists and their spouses who’d dropped her. Melissa felt as excited as she’d been that day long ago when the conference email had popped into her inbox.
The universe would take care of her. It always had.
All she needed now was a husband. And this time, she would be in charge. No more flattery, no more doe-eyed gratitude. No. This time, he could worship her.
It was pathetically easy, and it happened even faster than she had imagined it would. The good old universe always had her back.
Maybe she had daddy issues, maybe she loved being in control of things, but she wanted another older man. Someone who would know how lucky he was. Someone who would be dazzled by not only her but her new lifestyle.