Wellesley Wives (New England Trilogy) (26 page)

“Okay, well, I’ll just get you a cup of tea, and I won’t disturb you if you’re still in the bathroom. I’ll put it on your bedside table. Enjoy your bath and catnap. I’ll organize a wake-up call for one o’clock, and then we can have some lunch together. Our driver is booked for two o’clock.”

Popsy nodded. “Thank you,” she said.

It wasn’t a lot, but coming from Popsy in her current state, it was more than enough for Sandra. She rushed to her friend, sat on the bed, and gave her a hug. “Oh, Popsy, you’re so welcome. We all love you so much, and we’re going to be okay. You have to trust me on this. We’re going to be okay.” The passion in her voice had no effect on Popsy. She accepted Sandra’s hug, but she didn’t hug her back or respond in any significant way. At least she hadn’t pushed her away.

“Now,” Sandra said as she pulled back, “you and I are going to paint this town red over the next few days. We’re going to squeeze in as many sightseeing trips, lunches, dinners, drinks in lovely hotels—anything we can think of—as we can. We only have this weekend to live once, and we’re going to make it count. All too soon we’ll be on that plane back to our humdrum lives, so let’s escape for this weekend and leave all our troubles and pain back in America. Do you hear me, Popsy Power?”

This time Popsy did look at Sandra and managed a small grin and a nod.

“Good. Now go and have a nice bath. I better check out the gym while I’m at it,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone as she got up to leave. “Sweet dreams, Popsy. See you in a few hours.” Sandra left Popsy alone and went back into their drawing room to call room service.

Within moments, Popsy was slipping into her scalding hot bath. It was too hot and burned her skin. Just the way she liked it. The more pain the better, because then, just for the briefest of moments, she didn’t think of Peter and only thought of the pain. It worked now, too. It was so hot she clenched her teeth so she wouldn’t scream, and then she was in. When the heat subsided, her mind would be empty again. Empty and able to fill up with thoughts of Peter.

She lay in the piping-hot water and looked around the bathroom. Peter would have liked this. The decor was very modern with walls and floors of coffee-caramel marble and there was an enormous mirror over the bath. He would’ve wanted to be in the bath with her. Lack of sleep never stopped him. Nothing stopped Peter, and then suddenly, so suddenly, he was stopped. Gone.

She couldn’t believe they didn’t even get to say goodbye. How could God be so cruel? What had she ever done to deserve this? Why Peter? Why not her? It would have been so much easier if she’d been the one in the car. It was even her car. It should have been her. Of course, it wasn’t the crash that had killed him, but the heart attack. Though maybe if she’d been with him, things could have been different.

If she’d just seen him going out the front door, maybe she could have stopped him. Or if he’d had the second heart attack at home, she could have called 911. She sighed. What did any of this matter, anyway?

Popsy knew it was all her fault. She let him out of the hospital. She let him run down those confounded steps. Everybody spent so much time and energy telling her it wasn’t her fault, but of course it was. She was the world’s worst wife. The most careless woman in the world. What had she been thinking letting him escape the hospital? Now God had punished her. She was meant to mind him, to protect him, to cherish him. And what had she done? Killed him.

If only she’d been in the wretched car with him. If only they could have died together. The girls were old enough to fend for themselves. Death would be so much better than living without Peter.

Popsy didn’t care about Ireland. She really didn’t want to be here, but the family had insisted. It was only for a few days. She would be home soon, in time for his four-month anniversary at the end of February. The others wouldn’t acknowledge it, but she would. How could Peter be nearly four months gone? When she’d first heard that he was dead, she didn’t think she would make it to nightfall, but the painful horrible truth was that she did last the day. And then another. And another.

Living without the one you loved was like being the living dead. At least Sandra could hate Jack. He was a bastard. Popsy pointblank refused to speak to him anymore. If Jack hadn’t shacked up with Lily, Peter wouldn’t have had that first heart attack. He might still be alive today. True, she blamed herself for Peter’s ultimate death, but Jack had a part to play in it, too.

For some reason, Lily escaped her wrath. She was still disgusted with her daughter, but she didn’t blame her for her father’s death. That last day in the hospital, Peter had told her he wasn’t mad with Lily, only with Jack, so Popsy did the same. She knew her Lily was still suffering terribly. Rosie was probably doing the best of all of them. Of course she was heartbroken, but Marcus had wide shoulders, and he took care of her so well. They’d very nearly cancelled their vacation plans, but Popsy had insisted that if she was going to Ireland, Rosie was going to the Caribbean to learn to play golf.

Rosie would fly out on Sunday, and Popsy was due to get home on Monday. It was agreed that Matilda would babysit Natasha for one night alone in Popsy’s house. They had gotten to know each other when Matilda moved into Rosie’s house for a little while to get used to her newest charge.

The busier they all kept Matilda the better, because it was no surprise she was heartbroken, too. Everybody was. There wasn’t a person who didn’t love Peter, and to have him gone left an enormous hole in all their hearts but most of all, Popsy’s. Her life was over. She knew that. There was nothing left for her. Okay, she had the girls and Natasha and, of course, Sandra was an amazing friend, but without Peter, she was nobody. He was her better half, and with him gone, she was just an empty shell.

Popsy put her head under the water and came back up for air. What in the world was she doing in Dublin at a time like this? It was beyond her, but then again, so were most things these days. When the skin on her fingers got wrinkly, she got out of the bath and rummaged through her case for her nightdress and sleeping tablets. Since Peter’s death, she hadn’t been able to sleep. The drugs were her little friends. So reliable. And they gave her what nobody else could—escape. Blessed escape for a few short hours when she could forget everything.

But then, inevitably she had to wake up to the nightmare that was her new life. Exhausted from the trip and now the bath, Popsy wasn’t focusing properly. She couldn’t find her tablets anywhere. She’d been sure they were in her toiletries bag, but they weren’t. Nor were they in her purse.

When she came out of her bathroom, she saw Sandra’s little gift of a cup of tea, and despite promising not to, she had left half a scone beside it. She sat down and took the tea. It was so nice. Still warm and with a richer taste than she was used to. It soothed as it went down. She looked at the fluffy white scone. No, she just wasn’t hungry, but the tea was very welcome.

She finished the cup and wondered where in the world those darn tablets had gotten to. In utter exasperation, she decided to lie down and rest. There was no way she would fall asleep, but at least a rest would help. When she went out with Sandra later, she could buy some more of her little friends.

Chapter 22 

Life after Love

Sandra had lied to Popsy. She didn’t book the wake-up call for one o’clock. She had them phone her at eleven thirty that morning. Popsy needed her sleep, but Sandra was determined to squeeze in a session at the gym before they took off on their sightseeing tour. She knew the food in Ireland was incredible, and she would just have to work it off as she consumed it or else she’d return to the U.S. as heavy cargo. Not an attractive thought.

    The scone was her first taste of Irish fare, and it was simply to-die-for. So light and fresh and still warm from the oven. There were raisins throughout, and it wasn’t as sweet as she was used to, but she preferred that. Yes, she’d have to work out every day or face the consequences.

Leaving the bed hadn’t been easy, either. Sandra was used to luxury, and The Four Seasons was just as good as anything she’d experienced in the U.S. or the Caribbean. It was all quite modern, but the mood was of yesteryear, befitting the old city they were in. The room had a fresh, clean feel while maintaining the same air of opulence that the rest of the hotel had. The curtains, blended with a luxuriously heavy fabric that was a pale shade of caramel, and the tone perfectly matched the floors. At the bottom of her bed was a large plush sofa covered in an oversized flower print fabric, and in front of that was a small table with the leftovers of her scone and the pot of tea. It was all so tasteful—so frightfully European. Sandra loved it.

Okay, enough procrastinating, she thought. Gym time.

She took one of the plastic key cards and tried to put it into the tiny pocket at the back of her sweats. There was something in there already, which was odd because she typically didn’t use the back pocket. It was designed to hold an iPod, but Sandra preferred to wear hers on her arm.

She pulled out a business card that had clearly been through the laundry services of The Celtic Crowne several times. It was frayed at the edges, but the small, tight pocket had preserved it well enough to read. It was Sven’s business card. She’d forgotten about it. Now she remembered tucking it in there while they were talking in the gym that day. She hadn’t even read it at the time.

Sandra tucked the card key in her pocket and headed out, still holding his business card. As she walked, she read:
Sven Richter MD, OB/GYN
.

She laughed out loud. My God. He’s an obstetrician and gynecologist. The next line said he was in the fellow of the Reproductive Endocrinology and Infertility Society of the United Kingdom. Well, if anyone could help her get pregnant, it was him.

“Shut the front door,” Sandra said, smiling at the same time. She put the card back into the tiny pocket and tapped it for safety. She should call him, she thought, as she jogged down the hall to find the hotel’s gym. Was it time for her to move on?

Getting onto a treadmill was second nature to Sandra. It was where she felt her best and also where she did some of her most productive thinking. Incredible to know she was now three thousand miles away from home and all that involved. She worried about Popsy. In all the years she’d known her, Popsy had never been so low.

The day Peter died, everything happened so fast. Seeing Jack and Lily in each other’s arms had been hard enough, but when he’d told her Peter was dead, it got so much worse. She heard the words, but couldn’t comprehend them. She thought there had to be some mistake. Maybe he’d had another heart attack—but dead? That was too big, too final. It couldn’t be the case.

Much as she’d hated seeing her husband with Lily, looking back on it now she was also grateful he was there. Much better to hear it from him than a stranger. What would’ve happened if Jack hadn’t been at the accident? Would the police have called to tell Popsy? The way it happened, she was surrounded by her children and Sandra, but to be alone and told by a cop that your husband, the man you were supposed to grow old with, was gone, and not even having the chance of a good-bye . . . what an appalling thought.

Jack was holding her arms firm in his big, strong hands. “Sandra, you have to focus. We have to do this together. We have to go in and tell Popsy.”

“And Rosie.”

“Is she here? That’s a good thing. Can you phone Marcus? Who else do we need to call?”

Sandra shrugged. She glanced over to Lily who’d been watching them interact, but she seemed disconnected, dazed. Lily was in shock, of course, so Sandra did something she never thought she would ever do, she gently detached herself from Jack and went over to Lily and took her hand.

“Come on, we have to go in to your mother,” she said.

Strange what we do in an emergency, she thought now. Of course, she’d done it for Popsy’s sake and not Lily’s, but still, she was proud of herself.

She remembered going back into the house. Popsy had taken in their ashen faces and sat down.

“What’s wrong?” was all she said, but Sandra figured she already knew. Under normal circumstances, whatever they were—she would’ve ranted and raved about Jack’s unexpected arrival, and Popsy hadn’t yet made peace with her daughter, but none of that was even mentioned.

Sandra came over and sat beside her.

“It’s Peter. He had another heart attack.”

“I’ll kill him.” She shook her head. “Where is he? Have they taken him back to the hospital? I have to go.” She pulled away from Sandra and stood. “Where are my keys? Matilda!” She called, but her voice was a little manic. Some sixth sense must have told her that this was a bigger crisis than the last. She looked like she wanted to remove herself from the room.

Rosie said, “Where is he, Jack? He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

Jack shook his head and started to cry. “Peter didn’t survive this attack. I’m so sorry.”

The wail that came out of Popsy was not of this world. Her legs gave way, but Sandra had her arms around her, holding on for all her might. They slipped to the floor together, a singular unified mass of misery.

“Oh Christ, I’m so sorry, Popsy. I was on my way to meet him for lunch, and when I got there, I came across the accident. His car—that is—your new car—and, well, he had an attack at the wheel and it went off the road just at the restaurant on Route 9. It wasn’t a bad crash. I saw him getting loaded into the ambulance. He didn’t look hurt. There wasn’t even any blood. But then I spoke to the emergency team, told them I was his friend, and asked them to tell me what happened.”

Sandra leered at him. Some friend.

“They said he had a heart attack at the wheel. It must have been a big one.”

Lily and Rosie hugged their mother, too, and Matilda rushed back in. Everybody was crying. Then the doorbell rang.

“That will be the police,” Jack had offered. “They told me I should come tell you, but they would be along soon after.”